


Winter

by eight_0f_hearts



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I hope, Post-Finale, also typical snowed-in story haha, break-up fic, but fluffy as well as angsty, literally all the cliches in this one, not a permanent break-up, so more of a getting back together fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1681556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eight_0f_hearts/pseuds/eight_0f_hearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma and Killian are together. And then they're not. And then they're snowed in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ghosts

 

**THEN**  
 _(i need you so much closer)_

“I love you.”

Killian is cold when she says it for the first time. His fingers icy when she slips her hand into his, the metal of his hook covered in a thin sheen of frost, both their breath puffing misty white into the air before them.

She doesn't know how long he's been standing out at the docks, but winter is approaching with force by now. It rained earlier, and then snowed, and everything has that sharp, crisp smell of _cold_ , undercut by the lingering salt of brine that she has come to associate with him.

He spends a lot of time standing here, staring out at the water as though it holds something he needs–

and sometimes he wakes in the night with a start, grasping at the sheets and the side of the bed like he thinks he is about to fall–

and he has admitted, between sleepy morning kisses and burnt pancakes and cinnamon-laced cocoa that he sleeps better on the water, with the rock of waves under him–

and she knows, even as he makes every effort not to talk about it, that the absence of the Jolly Roger cuts deeper than he ever shows.

It is the first time she has said it, and when he turns to look at her she can see the empty expanse of the bay reflected in his eyes, and his lips – red and chapped from the cold – quirk into a half-smile.

It is the first time she has said it because even after their kiss and everything that happened after it still felt like such a huge step – like then it would all become real, and once it became real there was the potential for it to break, to end, for everything to go horribly wrong – but now he's out here on the docks again, and it feels right, and it feels like maybe the words will fill the emptiness in his eyes, or even, somehow, the conspicuous lack of tall masts and billowing sails out on the water.

“I know,” he replies, squeezing her hand, and she smiles back at him, and huddles closer into his side as the wind creeps under the collar of her jacket, sending a chill down her back.

They were okay, back then.

 

**NOW**

 

A cold shiver runs through Emma as she pulls open the door of Granny's diner, the instant warmth of the heated interior engulfing her like an embrace.

It's cold outside – stupidly cold. And yeah, it's winter, but the weather had been mild up until a few hours ago when it abruptly began to snow, the temperature deteriorating since then until now, at barely five o'clock, it's almost dark as night, black clouds rolling in and freezing rains sweeping the streets.

She's glad to get in from the cold.

She is somewhat less glad when her eyes fall on Killian, sitting in a booth halfway across the room, and she freezes where she stands.

 _Let's stay friends_ is a lie _._ It is the biggest damn lie ever told.

He glances up, makes eye contact, and gives her a smile of greeting. She smiles back, and it's funny because the motion still feels awkward, almost forced, but at the same time _routine_. They have been smiling at each other across rooms for a month now and it never fails to make that same, dull ache spread through her stomach. Something almost like fear or nerves, something that makes her unsure quite what to do with her hands.

_It can never be the same again._

“Emma!” David shouts, and the moment is broken as she turns towards her family, sitting at another table nearby. Henry grins and waves at her, mouth full, while Mary Margaret smiles from where she is nursing baby Neal, arms tucked around him lovingly.

Emma waves back at them, moving over to the counter to order her food. She can't quite help the way her eyes drift back across the room. Her family at one table, Killian at another. Not ignoring each other – nothing even closeto that, because as she watches David leans back in his chair to call something across to the pirate, and Henry looks up, listening in on their conversation.

But the fact still remains that Killian is sitting over _there_ – Tinker Bell on one side of him, Jefferson opposite (and that had been a surprise, turns out they knew each other “back in the day”, whatever that means) – and he's wearing clothes that she doesn't recognise.

It had taken her two weeks to convince him to get rid of the pirate leathers, mostly because it was getting far too cold for him to be going out with half his chest on display (a problem that would have been easily solved by his just _doing up some buttons_ for once, but apparently the mere concept affronted him) – _that_ had been an experience.

Now he's got a scarf wrapped around his neck that she certainly didn't buy him, his hair slightly messed up and flattened from where he must have been wearing a beanie against the brisk chill outdoors – and it's that, more than anything, that gets to her for some reason. The thought of him going out and doing something as mundane as buying clothes without her.

It's stupid.

It's just, it was one of the first things they did together – and she still remembers every detail of it, the way he looked in the twenty different shirts she made him try on. The drama surrounding the skinny jeans.

The way he laughed, head thrown back, teeth flashing, sheerly _happy_ for one of the first times she'd ever seen him, hands tangled in her hair when he kissed her in the changing rooms of the store, the way she giggled against his lips –

“It's killing me,” Ruby says grimly as she slides a plate across the counter.

“What?” Emma replies, half-distracted, and Ruby gives a put-upon sigh, leaning forward on her elbows, gaze trained in Killian's direction.

“The two of you.”

“What about us?” Emma asks, a little sharply as she straightens up, and Ruby raises an eyebrow.

“Really, Emma? He's _right there_. Go talk to him, fix things.”

 _Fix things_ . A wry smile twitches at her mouth. It's somehow funny and sad at the same time. _Not that simple_.

“There's nothing to fix,” she replies firmly. She reaches for her plate, but Ruby's still holding onto it, leaning forward again with an intense, almost pleading look.

“ _Emma_ -”

“I mean it,” Emma repeats, “There's nothing to fix. We were together, it didn't work out, maybe I wasn't ready, maybe he wasn't – it's _fine_. We're both fine. We're still friends, it's all cool.”

“Is it?” Ruby questions.

“Yes,” Emma says, and Ruby just shakes her head as she lets the plate go, hard enough that a bit of sauce spills over the edge.

Emma bites her lip as she moves to sit down next to David. Irritation at Ruby rises up vaguely, but she can't quite bring herself to be properly angry – she knows the other woman is _confused_ , more than anything else. It's nothing new.

Everyone had been confused. Ruby, Granny, David, Mary Margaret. Even Regina.

And Emma.

 _And Killian_.

She can't help looking back over at him, though, and he's looking back – doesn't quite glance away fast enough – he's not smiling, this time. He looks tired the way she felt tired in Neverland, in the moments when they were just on the brink of getting Henry back but not quite there, the way she felt tired the first time her parents stared at her with vacant eyes after they fell into the past. Tired like he just wants to go home–

(and she's seen herself in the mirror, she looks tired too) –

David has noticed them staring at each other; Jefferson too, and they both open their mouths like they're about to say something when suddenly the door to the diner is flung open with enough force that it rebounds off the wall.

Emma spins around, hand going to her gun, but it's Regina who stumbles in. She looks semi-pissed off but mostly just worried. Her hair is wet, flakes of snow settled on the shoulders of her coat, and she is shaking like a leaf. _Shivering_ , Emma realises, and a quick glance out of the window reveals that the snow is coming down _heavy_ now, swirling about in flurries in the wind, the sky pitch black.

“We have a problem,” Regina says grimly, striding towards Emma's table and slamming her hands down on it.

The diner has gone silent, all attention trained on the Queen. Killian and the others have risen and moved up towards Emma's table. She is suddenly acutely aware of his presence, standing just behind her, but keeps her attention trained on Regina.

“What is it, what's going on?”

“We have a _big_ problem,” Regina repeats, and points out the window. “It's Elsa.”

 

  
 **THEN**

 

“Emma? Calm down, it's fine.”

“It's _not_ fine,” and she's trembling, still trying to register exactly what just happened. She can't keep her eyes off Marian and Robin, the way they are embracing each other, Roland between them – and she _can't_ feel bad about it, _shouldn't_ feel bad, not when a child has his mother again, not when a husband has his wife back – but the way Regina _looked_.

“It's not fine,” she repeats, and turns to Killian. He grasps her by the arm, his grip warm and firm, his eyes intense where they stare into hers. A steady, reassuring presence. “It's not fine. I need to go talk to her.”

“Lass,” he says then, and she tries to pull away but he doesn't let her. “ _Emma_ , you're the last person she probably wants to see right now, believe me.”

“We can't just _leave her_ -”

“Send Henry,” Killian says, and his voice calms and settles something in Emma. She begins to think rationally.

Henry is already halfway out of his seat, glancing at Emma expectantly, and she gives him a small nod. David and Mary Margaret look like they want to come over and talk to her, but she doesn't quite think she can deal with that right now, and turns away, arms wrapped around herself. They don't follow her.

Killian does. His arm is still around her back, and he leads her over to a seat and wordlessly passes her his ever present flask of rum.

She scoffs out a laugh. “Your solution to every problem?”

“You should know by now that it works.” There's a smile in his voice, and his hand rubs soothing circles on her back. Slowly she feels herself begin to relax. The alcohol may or may not also have something to do with that.

She lets out a heavy sigh, thuds her head forward onto the table. “I've made a fine mess of things.”

“You haven't,” he says, “Don't ever be sorry for _saving_ a life.”

“You told me not to. You _warned_ me.”

“I was wrong. I mean it, I was _wrong_.”

There's a moment of silence, her head still lowered, huffing out breaths against her folded arms, when she feels a light pressure on the back of her head as he places a kiss against her hair. It's hesitant, and he pulls back instantly when she doesn't react, so she sits up. Smile at him and laces her fingers in his. Lets him lean forward and kiss her again, on the forehead this time.

“It's fine,” he repeats, and this time she almost believes him.

It _is_ fine, as it turns out, or close to it, and the consequences of her decision play out amongst firsts.

Marian is not all they brought back. There is Elsa. Elsa who stumbles into town, shivering and terrified, unable to remember anything except for her name, uncontrollable blasts of ice shooting from her fingertips. Regina is the one who runs into her first, manages to knock her out and bring her in, and that is what gives Emma the idea.

Because Regina was the one who taught her to use magic, and she could see the pride in the others' eyes when she finally managed to control it. Regina needs _purpose_ now, more than anything – and Emma knows that from experience – and by convincing her into the role of mentor for the young girl who has apparently been trapped in a pot for the last however-many years, it gives her something to do. Something to strive towards.

It's not easy – Elsa spends half her time hysterical and the other half closed off in a way that makes Emma's heart ache – _she didn't want her powers at first either_ – but they work through it, and while Regina is far from okay, between Elsa and Henry she doesn't slip back into old habits, and she even starts to smile again.

Emma smiles a lot lately.

Everything is easy with Killian. The casual touches – a pat on the shoulder, his arm around her waist or her head resting on his shoulder – come as naturally as though she's been doing them her whole life. Everything is simple, comfortable.

Some things take time. The first _I love you_ , the first time they make love, but it doesn't feel like a waiting game. It feels like everything has fallen into place and this is what she has always been waiting for.

The first morning after, she wakes up disoriented. It's horribly brisk out in this season but she's warm because there's a body pressed against her back, an arm tucked tight around her, and when she rolls over and sees him lying there it all comes flooding back and she just feels _blissful_.

He's still asleep, all the lines of stress and exhaustion and the 300 years in Neverland that seem to constantly bear down on him smoothed away, and she traces a hand across his face, over the scar high on his cheek, and can't quite believe that this is _hers_. Hers, and for once something that she doesn't need to grasp on tightly and be afraid that someone is going to snatch it away from her.

( _Tallahassee,_ a voice whispers somewhere in the back of her mind, and it makes her smile.)

There are a lot of firsts purely due to the fact that Killian is new to this world. Stupid, little things like _first ice cream_ and _first movie night_ , and every one of them Emma tucks away in her mind, building new memories, _real_ memories this time.

Their first snowball fight, which takes place out in the park in the centre of town, with Regina and Henry and a cluster of Storybrooke's children and their parents. Elsa is there, too, under Regina's supervision experimenting with her powers, snow being much safer than ice (and they are _strong_ powers, Emma notices, filing this away for later contemplation, because Elsa can do so much and control it so little and much as she likes and pities the girl, there is the potential there for danger).

Regina is laughing for once, furiously pelting Henry from behind a fort of snow blocks and ignoring his gasped out cries that using magic to deflect the snowballs is cheating.

That's when Robin walks past, Marian too, as Roland notices the game and shouts that he wants to join in, running towards the fray before his parents can stop him.

Emma sees the moment that Regina notices them and freezes up. A snowball hits the Queen in the side of the head, courtesy of Henry, but she barely flinches, her gaze fixed on Robin, who in turn stares back like a stunned mullet.

Emma's heart aches. She doesn't know what's going on there – doesn't know Robin half well enough to pry into his business – but she can see the pain in Regina's eyes and the way a wall shutters down the same way Emma has always had walls up – even against David and Mary Margaret, even when they were trying their hardest but she still couldn't quite help but remember the pain of each and every foster home.

It isn't until she sees the same thing on someone else's face that she realises just how thoroughly _gone_ hers are.

“Swan?” Killian asks in her ear, softly, and follows her gaze. She hears him draw a short breath. “Damn.”

“It sucks. I wish I could do something about it but it's not my place to interfere. And I... I can't wish Marian dead, not after seeing what happened.”

“Never thought I'd be one to feel _sorry_ for the Evil Queen, but there you have it,” Killian murmurs. “You're right, though, love, about Marian.”

They stand there watching a moment longer. Roland is running about screaming and dodging the (rather more gently thrown) snowballs of the others, Regina observing with a wistful look.

Then there's suddenly cold snow sliding down Emma's back, under her thick jacket, and she screeches and jumps, spinning around, flailing wildly to get it out as Killian breaks down in a fit of laughter.

“You _bas-”_ she remembers the presence of the kids and quickly censors herself. “uh, bad... pirate!”

“ _Gods_ ,” Killian wheezes, still doubled over laughing as Emma shivers and shakes and slaps at her parka trying to dislodge the snow. “Your _face_!”

“I'm going to get you for that. Henry, _get him for that_!” she hollers, and suddenly there is an entire hoard of little children chasing after Killian as the smile drops off his face and he starts running. Emma jogs after him and throws a few half-hearted snowballs before leaving the kids to it and turning back to Regina. Robin and Marian have moved on, following Roland across the park, and Regina is standing nearby with Elsa, who knows little of the Robin situation and is lingering awkwardly, seeming unsure what to do or say.

“You okay?” Emma asks, bluntly, and Regina meets her eyes and nods.

For whatever reason – maybe because she's been in the spirit of goodwill lately, maybe because prolonged exposure to Mary Margaret has damaged not only her cynicism but her brain to mouth filter – she finds herself stupidly, stupidly blurting out, “Love – romantic love – isn't everything, you know.”

Regina raises an eyebrow coolly and Emma immediately regrets saying anything.

“That is a lovely platitude, Miss Swan,” she says – and to Emma's relief, she doesn't sound annoyed. Just tired. “But it's a little rich coming from you.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” She should know better than to get defensive, she knows, but Regina has a way of getting under her skin, even now.

Regina just rolls her eyes. “The whole town can see it. You're in honeymoon phase with your dear pirate.” There's no malice in the worlds, just that same mocking exasperation. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“What's _that_ supposed to mean?” Emma repeats. Something is off about the way Regina says it, like there are dark clouds on the horizon – and she hates that, _hates it_ , hates the feeling of dread it stirs up in her stomach before she can stop it, because _this should be it, this should be the happy ending we deserve, haven't we been through enough pain?_

“All I'm saying,” Regina says, “Is that Robin and I are not the only ones who have ghosts that can come back to haunt us.”

It's the fact that she sounds serious – grave – almost _concerned_ that sets Emma on edge, makes her bite her lip even as Regina beckons to Elsa and wanders off. And then she gets angry, grits her teeth, clenches her fists, thinks _no_ , _wills_ nothing to happen.

 _Ghosts_?

They both have history, she knows that. But that's all it is. _History_. Despite the whole entanglement of Neal and Milah and everything else that has happened, she and Killian have made it work – made it start over.

 _No,_ she thinks again, determined.

And when Killian jogs back over to her, breathless, absolutely drenched with half-frozen flecks of snow clinging to his clothes, cheeks red from the cold and grinning like a maniac, Regina's warning is flooded from her mind because _this is perfect_ , this is them now, and she's never been more certain of something – _someone_ – in her life.

.

And then he wakes in the night coughing and gasping and dreaming of drowning and all she can do is press her lips to his again and again the way she did the first time –

.

And then she wakes in the night with tears streaming down her cheeks and the memory of Snow White engulfed in flames burned into her memory and all he can do is wrap his arms around her and pull her close the way he did back then –

.

“I'm damaged goods,” he tells her one day, after something happens – she isn't sure what, only that he encounters someone in Storybrooke who he knows from _back then_ and it isn't pretty but there's nothing she can do about it.

It's the way he says it that breaks her heart – perfectly serious, and a bit sad, and solemn as though he thinks she actually _cares_. It makes her fold her arms instead of reaching out to him.

“Shut up, if you are then I am.”

He looks offended at the very thought. “You're not.”

“Then you're not.”

.

(Except they both are, and it shouldn't matter.)

.

(Except it does, in the end.)

 

**NOW**

 

Emma presses a hand against the glass of the window. It's frosted over with fog, even on the inside, and the street lights outside are doing pitifully little against the sudden dark clouds that have descended over Storybrooke, cloaking everything in night. Snow is already beginning to pile up against the walls of the diner.

“You're saying _Elsa_ caused this?” she demands, turning back to Regina.

Regina nods. She has a hot cup of tea in front of her, a towel wrapped around her shoulders.

“We weren't even doing anything,” she explains. “Just sitting. Talking, as usual. And then I don't know what happened – it was like she zoned out for a moment. Her eyes went completely unfocused; I couldn't get her to hear anything I was saying. Like she was in a trance. And when she jerked out of it – she _remembered_.”

Emma frowns. They hadn't been able to find out exactly where Elsa had come from, or how she ended up in Rumplestiltskin's vault – the man himself being of absolutely no help – and with her having no memories herself, they had long since given up.

“And then she freaked out,” Regina continues. “Started panicking and shouting about how 'everything was her fault', whatever that means. She got so agitated she started a snowstorm right there in my living room; I couldn't stop her. And then she ran out – ran off towards the forest – except the storm got bigger as she went. It's covered the whole town. I spent a few hours searching for her but she's vanished completely.”

“We're sure this is her?” David asks, glancing outside again. “It _is_ the middle of winter.”

Regina snorts, loudly. “ _Really,_ Charming? Step outside and tell me if you've ever seen a natural winter this damn _cold_.”

It's true; despite the heating in the diner even Emma is starting to feel a chill.

“Besides,” Regina continues, “I tried using my magic to calm it down a bit. Didn't work. This is Elsa, alright. We need to find her before it gets worse. She could freeze the entire town at this rate. People are already holing in indoors.”

“That doesn't sound like a half bad idea,” Jefferson grumbles. Emma glances at him and finds him casting worried glances at the door. She suddenly realises that Grace is not there with them in the diner, and snaps into action.

“Regina's right, we need to find her. In the mean time we need to send out an announcement, get everyone indoors. Set up some sort of system to provide people with food and blankets in case they get snowed in. Mary Margaret, you need to get Neal home – Henry too. We should check in on the hospital as well.”

Mary Margaret nods, already rising and wrapping a shawl around herself and the baby. David moves to help her as everyone else starts collectively flooding out of the diner, Jefferson practically knocking over chairs in his haste.

Regina rises, draining the last of the tea and vigorously towel drying her hair.

“She can't have gotten too far,” she says. “There's only so much woodland for her to hide in. We'll set up a search grid then split up. Call in everyone we can – Ruby, the dwarves.”

Emma nods. “We'll meet up at the loft. I'll grab some maps from the station.”

They're bustling into action when Emma feels the tap on her shoulder. She turns around to see Tinker Bell – and beside her, Killian. The sight of him standing so close makes her heart start slamming in her chest – and she chides herself. _Stupid. Stupid._ Tells herself it's just because he startled her.

“I can help,” Tinker Bell says, earnestly, “With my magic back I won't feel the cold as much. I'll go fetch the other fairies. Even if we can't track down Elsa we can help deliver supplies to anyone who winds up snowed in.”

“Great. Thanks Tink,” Emma says. The fairy smiles and moves off. She presses Emma's arm as she passes, and then glances over her shoulder at Killian. Emma bites her lip, tries not to read into the motion.

“Hey,” Killian says, quietly, and she looks up at him.

That awkward nervousness wells up again, and she has no idea why – it's not like they haven't had conversations with each other since they broke up. And there's something almost amusing about the fact that it's been three months since they were together and one month since they weren't and it's only now, in the middle of a raging crisis, when she can't seem to find anything to say.

“Hi,” she replies, finally, “You okay to help?”

“Of course,” he says, “Anything. Better to nip this in the bud before it gets any worse. And with the amount of hunting around in these woods we've done over the last few months, I dare say it shouldn't be too hard.”

“Yeah, well, touch wood,” she mutters, tapping the back of a chair as they head for the door, and he scoffs out a little laugh, ducking his head. She glances at him, unable to stop her lips twitching into something that's almost a smile.

The wave of nostalgia that hits her almost bowls her over.

When they step outside the cold is like a smack in the face; Emma actually _gasps_ , her face tingling and burning at the sudden rush of freezing air. She zips her jacket all the way up until it covers her chin, fumbles to tug her gloves out of her pocket and put them on. Beside her she feels Killian shudder through a full-body shiver.

“Regina wasn't joking,” he murmurs.

“Elsa is powerful,” Emma says grimly. “ _Really_ powerful.”

“Not as powerful as the Saviour,” Killian replies, with a little sidelong glance in her direction. She stiffens, unsure how to react to the compliment. “Remember, lo- lass, we're not fighting her. We're just trying to find her. Bring her _home_.”

Emma nods, but the word he cut off is hanging in the air between them, and there's an uncomfortable silence in which he fidgets a lot and makes a passing attempt to pull his scarf up over his mouth with one hand.

“That's nice,” she says awkwardly, “That's a nice scarf.”

“What? Oh. Yes. Courtesy of Jefferson."

She should probably not be as relieved as she is that it's from Jefferson and not from Tinker Bell.

She should probably not be thinking about just _why_ she might be so relieved _._

They walk to the gate together, and stop at the road, and she swallows all the words that are suddenly rising up at the back of her throat, choking her, clamouring to come out at once no matter how much she wants them to stay in.

“Need a lift to the apartment?” she asks instead. “It's pretty cold to walk.”

He shakes his head. “It's out of your way. I'll be fine.”

“Okay."

And there's another moment of silence, and she feels like one or both of them should say something.

Neither of them do, not until Emma gives an awkward sort of wave and starts to move off down the street.

“Swan!” he calls out then, and she turns, glances over her shoulder.

He's standing here, by the gate, hand shoved deep into his pocket, shoulders hunched against the cold. Hair slightly dishevelled from the wind, looking lost and a little forlorn but still with that damnable smile on his face. The one that he's never stopped having, even in the last month. The smile that says he believes in her more than anything else, that's he's confident in her ability to save them all.

“We're not fighting her,” he repeats, “She's not the enemy. This isn't another Wicked Witch. That's all over.”

It isn't until he's said it that she realises it's exactly what she needs to hear. She hadn't even registered the anxiety that was starting to well up over the possibility – between Regina and Cora and Pan and Zelena there hadn't been time to think, to breathe, her whole family in danger and now that there's Neal they're more vulnerable than ever –

But he's right. Elsa's not a threat, not deliberately anyway.

They just need to help her.

Like he said. They just need to bring her home.

“I know,” she replies, and half-smiles back, and he gives an awkward sort of wave with his hand still jammed in his jacket pocket, and turns and walks off down the road. Her smile fades as she watches him leave.

She's had a lot of people walk away from her over the years, but even now–

even after seeing it happen a dozen times over the last month–

His still hurts the most.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an absolute sucker for break-up fics where they get back together at the end. I know it would never happen with Captain Swan. BUT WHAT IF.


	2. cracks

  **THEN**  
 _(i can't believe it isn't gold)_  
  


Killian hates magic.

Has since the moment it ripped his brother away from him without warning. Since then he'd tried his best to avoid it – couldn't entirely, of course, that sort of came with the Enchanted Forest territory – and even then it brought him nothing but trouble. Run-ins with mystical artefacts. Mermaids. Sirens.

And then Milah happened.

And then Neverland, and everything he lost there (his heart, his humanity, half of his crew in the Echo Cave) –

– and it's what he sees in the eyes of magic-users that really makes him sick. The blank corruption in the Dark One's eyes as he murdered his wife without even flinching. The way Cora and Regina can reach into someone's chest with scarcely a second thought. Killian has committed his fair share of horrors but they have all been _human_ , as far as possible. Blood and bone and dirt.

Emma is different.

He jumps when the cup of hot chocolate materialises in front of him, her laugh sounding from across the room, and his lips twitch into an involuntary smile.

“Is that your only trick, Swan?” he asks, swivelling in his seat. He hadn't even heard her enter the diner, had been too lost in thought.

She wanders across to sit next to him, stealing a sip of the cocoa. The whipped cream sticks to her upper lip and he reaches across to swipe it off with his thumb.

He still can hardly believe it. The fact that he can touch her now – that she will let him – this easy comfort that has settled between him. It's everything he was longing for and at the same time better than anything he ever expected.

“Oh, I can do so much more,” she replies, with a teasing grin, and he raises an eyebrow, leaning back against the seat with his arms folded.

“Really? Impress me.”

Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and he swallows as his eyes track the motion. She holds out a hand, focusing hard, and after a moment a small burst of flame appears in her palm. It only burns for a few moments before flickering out, but it is strong and bright and when she turns to him her grin is _proud_ and it makes him smile. If there's anyone who deserves to be sure of herself but so rarely is, it's Emma.

“Colour me amazed,” he tells her, and she giggles – almost nervously, suddenly shy again, and he almost feels bad for calling it a trick earlier.

“ _Are_ you amazed?”

“I'm _so_ amazed,” he says, and widens his eyes comically. She laughs harder, and he stretches his arm out over her shoulders, pulls her closer into his side. She follows easily, and he can't help but smile again.

The thing is, though – it's not her magic, never has been. It's everything else about her, the things people take for granted. It's not just her powers that make her the Saviour, it's her bravery, her smarts, the fact that the powers themselves are drawn from that deep, intense loyalty and love she holds towards her family.

Sometimes he wonders if everyone else in the town sees her the way he does, or if they're blinded by the light magic.

It doesn't matter. He sees it.

“I'm better with blasting things than I am with making stuff,” she says then, folding her hands behind her head and turning to look at him. “Hey, are you listening to me?”

“Of course,” he replies – and he was, it's just, her sitting so close to him still feels new. They've been together a few weeks now but it's still a novelty, that he's now allowed to trace her every feature.

She raises her eyebrows. “It'll wear off, you know. Give it a few days you'll stop gazing adoringly at me all the time.” There's a note of teasing in her tone, but also something underlying it that he doesn't like – something like self-deprecation – and he frowns.

“I somehow doubt that, Emma. Not as long as I live.”

“You say that now, wouldn't bet on it in ten years' time.”

 _Ten years_. The thought sends a thrill through him. He doesn't often like to think about time – Neverland skewed his inner clock and sometimes he forgets that every second is precious when you're not frozen in eternal youth – but the way she says it, so flippant, taking for granted that they'll spend the rest of their lives together – it settles something in him. A peace that he rarely feels, even now.

“Never wager against a pirate, love,” he informs her.

She rolls her eyes. “Anyway. Elsa's the opposite. Regina's been trying things out with her magic but it seems like all she can control is the weather. The _cold_ weather, at that.”

“That's very specific,” Killian replies, and can't quite help the unease that talk of magic always brings up in him. Any save Emma's, that is. “Is it light or dark magic?”

“Regina called it _elemental_. So... neither, I suppose.” She picks up on his sudden mood, of course she does, and frowns. Her hand comes to rest on his wrist, squeezing gently. “Everything alright?”

“Fine,” he replies, but she doesn't let up, shifting around so she's facing him entirely.

“You don't trust her?”

“It's not Elsa I don't trust,” he replies. “It's her powers. Magic corrupts – dark magic does, at least. We've borne witness to that three, four times over already.” He forces a smile. “Call me paranoid. I'm not trying to worry you.”

“Trust me, I've been considering all the ways this could go horribly wrong since she arrived in town,” Emma replies, running a hand over her face. “As long as she's not crushing hearts or performing blood rituals, I think we're okay.”

He must flinch at the mention of crushing hearts, because her gaze softens and her hold on his arm shifts until her thumb is pressed against the hollow of his wrist.

“Still beating,” she says, and he ducks his head with a smile. “Need to check mine?”

“No, Emma,” he replies, and pulls his hand back, bringing it up to cup the side of her face. “Yours is the only one I never need to check.”

She smiles, and leans forward to kiss him, and he wonders if she'll ever fully comprehend just _how much_ it means to him, that her heart can't be taken – it has been three hundred years and he still has nightmares about Milah, still, sometimes, gets sudden flashes of panic where he has to press his hand to his chest to make sure his own heart is still there – but Emma, he doesn't worry about. She is the only one he doesn't have to worry about.

 

**NOW**

 

Killian is shaking by the time he gets to the apartment. He has no idea exactly what Elsa is doing out there, but whatever it is, it has the temperature in Storybrooke dropping to some damn well sub-thermal levels. The snow is coming down heavily now, and the streets are ominously dark and empty as the residents of the town hole away indoors to wait out the storm.

Or, thanks to the lovely magical nature of this situation, to wait out the usual band of heroes sweeping in to sort things out.

“Killian?” David is the one to open the door for him. “Whoah, buddy, you look half-frozen. Get inside.”

His arm wraps around Killian's shoulders as he tugs him into the flat. He realises distantly that his teeth are chattering, but it's very warm in here – a combination of insulation, electric heating and the collective body heat of seven dwarves, a giant, and all the Merry Men – and it doesn't take long for him to start to thaw.

David is still eying him with something like concern. He does that a lot lately.

“We could have given you a lift over here, you know,” he says slowly, and Killian forces a smile.

“Thanks, but I was fine. Wanted to clear my head.”

David's eyebrows have risen, and Killian glances away, unwilling to talk about exactly what he wanted to clear his head about. David doesn't push, but Killian has the uncomfortable feeling that it's only because of the dire situation the whole town is in, because lately David pushes a lot. Not obviously, not even out loud, but since... since it happened, he's made a point of always just being _there_.

Which Killian found reassuring at first, because there are too many words in this world for what he and Emma were – Together? Dating? A couple? Lovers? – and the subtleties of each vernacular are lost on him, so at first he wasn't quite sure if leaving her meant leaving her whole family.

It didn't, as it turns out, and while Killian appreciates the way David makes an effort to keep up their friendship, sometimes he feels like the prince is just watching and waiting for Killian to _explain_.

Explaining is the last thing he wants to do.

Explaining means justifying and coming up with reasons for just why everything fell apart. Explaining brings up the possibility of _fixing things_ and Killian can't give himself that false hope, he _can't_ – _that_ would be the one thing that breaks him, and he's barely holding things together as is.

So he remains stubbornly silent towards all of David's unasked questions and puts up with him breathing down his neck at Granny's and the Rabbit Hole.

“Okay,” David says, and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. Let's go join the others then.”

Mary Margaret is sitting on the couch, Neal bundled close to her chest, one of his little hands clinging to her finger as she rocks him gently. He's half-asleep, his eyes sliding shut every few seconds before blearily blinking back open. Mary Margaret smiles when Killian approaches.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is quiet so as not to disturb Neal, but it's a bit redundant when everyone else in the room is loudly arguing where in the woods Elsa is most likely to have fled to. That baby could sleep through anything, anyway.

“He's getting big,” Killian replies, with a brief nod – always feeling a little awkward around her, even now, _especially_ now – Prince Charming may have warmed up to him but Snow White didn't, not entirely, mostly due to a lack of time spent alone together.

“He is!” Mary Margaret gushes, and then looks up at him again, eyes narrowed slightly. “We haven't spoken in a while. You doing okay?”

It's the genuine concern in her tone that makes a sudden lump form in his throat. He nods, briefly, gives another half-smile before turning away quickly.

A bad choice; at that moment the door swings open and Emma enters, rubbing her arms briskly to get the snow off her jacket, pulling her beanie off her head and shaking out her long blonde curls. The lump sticks in Killian's throat and he can't look away, can't drag his eyes off her even though he knows he should.

Right now her view of him is blocked by four out of seven dwarves, and he grasps the opportunity with both hands, taking the chance to drink her in, to let his face fall into that desperate longing that for the last month he has constantly had to cover up with an awkward smile or polite nonchalance. Pretending, pretending, _faking_ that he is okay with this distance.

He is not okay with this distance.

Because here's the rub: he is still absolutely, unequivocally in love with Emma Swan.

 _Bloody hell_.

It's worse than before because before, at least he had a chance – something to hope for – but now he's _had_ his chance. And he has seen, over the last four weeks, how Emma seems tired and defeated and her smile around her family is not quite as wide and bright as it used to be, and sometimes he wonders if this is even any better than when everything started going so horribly, unbelievably _wrong_ -

Or maybe he's just seeing things. Thinking that she feels the way he does because that's what he _wants._

 _Trying too hard to make everything alright_ , wasn't that what she'd said?

So he keeps his mouth shut and the expected smile on his face and does everything he can to keep them friends. Friends is better than nothing. Friends is better than staying away from her, even if he thinks that might sometimes be easier.

“Okay,” Emma says, turning in his direction. He breaks his gaze away quickly.

“I've got the maps,” she continues, and spreads them out on the table. Everyone crowds around them and at first Killian is hovering at the back of the group, behind the Merry Men, when suddenly there are hands on his shoulders pushing him forward until he's right behind Emma, bodies crowding up against him until he's practically pressing against her shoulder.

He shoots a glare behind him but the Merry Men are staring at him with almost too innocent expressions on their faces.

“So you can see,” murmurs Little John, helpfully.

Emma gives no outward indication that she is aware of what has happened, but she has gone suddenly tense. Killian has stiffened too, hyper aware of where his arm is now brushing against hers – their first physical contact in a long time and _stupid, stupid_ – but after a second Emma clears her throat and turns back to the maps.

“I've divided the area into grids,” she says. “We'll search it in pairs. Keep in touch as much as you can. Regina and I are the team leaders, contact us if you find her. Ruby, you go on your own, you can cover the most ground. Tiny, you're with Leroy, Regina with Doc...”

It is little surprise to him when Emma pairs him off with David. There's an odd number of people left so she ends up on her own. Everyone has grabbed their maps and is heading for the door when David catches Emma by the arm, then Killian.

“Hey,” he says, “You and I should swap.”

“What,” Emma says, very flatly, as Killian feels his heart drop into his stomach and stares accusingly at David. _What the hell are you playing at?_

“Taking your bug out on the road in this weather?” David asks, nodding his head towards the window. They can barely see outside for the frost. “It's not a good idea. I'll check the town line instead, my truck's probably safer to drive.”

Emma opens her mouth, can't seem to think of an argument against that, and then frowns. “ _David_ ,” she says instead, pointedly.

“Yes?” he asks.

Emma glances at Killian, who can't help the spike of hurt that spears through him. _Of course she doesn't want to go with you. Everything will be uncomfortable and awkward and of course, of course she doesn't want to be around you._

“Besides,” David continues, “You're better off in the forest than the main road. Easier for you to get to the others if they call.”

Emma stares at him a moment longer before nodding and tugging her arm away. She doesn't look at either of them as she makes her way towards the door.

“David,” Killian starts up, quietly, and shoots him a _please don't do this_ sort of look, not appreciating his interference at all.

But David just stares back at him impassively as though he is not doing this deliberately at all, before moving off towards the door. Killian bites his lip, feeling sick suddenly – and it's selfish, he knows, when the town is in danger. But he's torn between that ever-present urge to be around Emma, just to be in her presence, and the pain that he knows will come with having to hold himself back, try so hard not to let her see just _how much_ he misses her. How much it's tearing him apart to have lost her.

The absolute last thing he wants is to make her feel guilty, so it's conceal-don't-feel from here on out.

For someone who has spent a lifetime trying to hide himself away, bury himself beneath layers of braggart persona and ruthless pirate, it's surprisingly difficult.

“Good luck guys,” Mary Margaret calls from the sofa – just about everyone is outside by now, but Emma is hovering by the door, struggling to pull her beanie back on with her arms full of maps, gun, flashlight and other assorted equipment.

Killian gives Mary Margaret a brief wave before walking over to Emma. She glances up at him just as the torch slips from her too-full arms and clatters to the floor.

“Let me help you with that,” Killian says, bending to pick it up. He moves to grab some of the other things from her and for the briefest of moments his hand brushes against the bare skin of her wrist.

Emma jolts like she's received an electric shock. For a moment her eyes dart up to meet his – and he can't quite tell what he sees there, something like hurt and something like turmoil and something almost like _anger_ – and then she snatches her wrist back so abruptly that he can't help but flinch.

“Let's go,” she says curtly, and leaves the room a little too quickly.

 

**THEN**

 

There are days when integrating into Storybrooke – into this strange society where science has made up for magic – is just too hard, even for someone as adaptable and well-travelled as Killian, and it's on the days like these when he slips away from the Charmings and heads to the Rabbit Hole.

The Rabbit Hole reminds him of the taverns where he spent far too much time back in the Enchanted Forest. This is probably not a good thing, considering, but there's something comforting and familiar about it – the people, the atmosphere, the clink of glass on glass and dice on the table – sometimes he just needs not to feel out of place.

It's in the Rabbit Hole that he runs back into Jefferson. It's been a good while since he last saw the Hatter, and he's a little taken aback by the change that has come over the other man. Jefferson was slippery before, but now he's harsh like sandpaper, all his edges frayed, and there's something deep in his eyes that reminds Killian of himself. 300 years in Neverland bears down on a man the same way, it seems, that 28 years of the Dark Curse do. Revenge is a madness, after all.

“But you have your daughter back now?” Killian asks, once they've caught each other up on the last thirty or so years, and Jefferson nods, chin rested on his hands, looking nothing but tired.

“Yes.”

“So all's well then.”

Jefferson snorts, loudly, _mockingly_ , and Killian glances at him. Unsure if he should be offended.

“Jesus, Hook,” he says, “Never thought I'd take _you_ for an optimist.”

Killian stiffens his back. _Old habits_ , he thinks, suddenly embarrassed. Yes, the Charmings are rubbing off on him, but that's not a _bad_ thing. It shouldn't be a bad thing.

“I seem to be missing something then, _mate_ ,” he snaps, and Jefferson's gaze softens a bit.

“I've got ninety nine problems and getting Grace back only solved about five of them,” he mutters, and drains the rest of the alcohol in his glass. He swipes at his eyes, red-rimmed and tired. “You get it, right?”

“I don't quite think I do,” Killian replies, beginning to feel a little uneasy.

Jefferson barks out a laugh. “'course you do. You have it all now, don't you? Emma – the _Saviour_ – and all her family. Your happy ending. Just like Grace is mine.”

“Am I correct in thinking a 'but' is about to enter this conversation?”

“But we both have cracks.” And he _looks_ at Killian now, captures his gaze with that intense blue stare. The worst thing is that he doesn't look mad, not now, he looks terrifyingly sane. “The things we do, they break us. Those cracks don't go away.”

Killian looks at him with a carefully blank face, but there's panic rising up – that terrible old paranoia that haunted him in Neverland, _you are a bad person, just a pirate, don't let them see_ – and much as he thought he had put it all behind him in the here and now...

Ariel is unfinished business.

Ariel is such horribly, _horribly_ unfinished business. Ariel is that terrible shameful secret that Emma still doesn't know about.

He does what he is practiced in, which is to lean back with a tight-lipped smile and uncap his rum bottle.

“You are damned depressing company, Jefferson,” he says, and the Hatter scoffs out a laugh.

“Her parents from while she was under the curse? We have a kind of joint custody thing going on,” he explains, leaning back. “It sucks. I hate them. They are kind, lovely people and I _hate_ them.”

Killian silently passes him the bottle and excuses himself shortly after.

.

 _I need to tell you something_ , he thinks that night, as he watches Emma pottering about the apartment, checking that the doors are locked.

He feels sick with nerves, deep in his stomach.

 _I need to tell you something_. _In the year, the lost year-_

His mouth is suddenly dry as bone and he can't do it, he _can't do it_ – she's smiling now. Smiling the way she has been all day, and all yesterday, and almost all week, and he can't wipe that smile off her face. Can't shatter her happiness.

This is it for her. This is the relationship that will give her what she needs and what she _deserves_ – happiness. Complete, unadulterated, unconditional happiness. It has to be perfect. He can't break it.

 _Jefferson is a bloody insane idiot,_ he tells himself, and if he has cracks-

if he does have cracks-

he can cover them up, it's not like he hasn't been trying to do that this whole time.

“Alright?” Emma asks, coming over to him, still smiling.

He smiles back, but it must not reach his eyes because hers falters and a sudden stab of panic shoots through him and _cover it up, cover it up_ -

He grins, wider, rests his hands on her waist, leans forward to kiss her gently on the lips.

“Perfectly fine, love,” he replies, and lets her take his hand and lead him into the bedroom.

.

It is really all Jefferson's fault, or he thinks so, anyway; the other man's words have unsettled him. Like some sort of reverse-placebo effect.

.

 _Cracks,_ he thinks when he wakes thrashing in the night and rouses Emma with his turning.

.

 _Cracks_ , when he catches himself against the side of her car seat after a sudden stop and his hook slices into the leather inches away from the flesh of her arm.

They laugh that one off.

(His laugh is mostly teeth.)

.

They're lurking thoughts, more than anything, vague worries at the back of his mind. It is easy to smile when Emma is around; she settles him. He doesn't have to put in much of a conscious effort to tamper down any remaining traces of Captain Hook.

And then he's out at the bay one day, Eric on his mind. It's a stupidly early morning, the dawn dark with winter, and every lungful of salty air burns his nostrils and the back of his throat and he keeps sucking it in anyway, faced by the snarled and yelping seas, and after a few moments he twists the catch on his hook and takes it off. Uses his teeth to pull open the leather straps of the brace, lets that drop to the ground, too.

He doesn't have much of an idea what he is doing – _thinking_ , mostly, working his way through things that have been festering for hundreds of years. He needs this, the sea, the scars, just letting things go.

He thinks he is alone.

That is the problem. Emma is not the problem. Emma coming to find him is not the problem, it's _him_ , for going out there in the first place, for not being careful-

“What are you doing?” Her hand is on his shoulder, breath whisper-soft against his ear and still laced with a smile. And then noticing how suddenly he stiffens, the way he jams the stump of his left arm under his jacket, an involuntary motion to hide it from her.

“Killian?” And she's concerned now, moving around to face him.

“It's nothing, it's fine,” and he is desperate, now, suddenly, to keep it safe – keep it perfect – everything has been so lovely so far and this will ruin it. This is all the ugly parts of his past and –

and all of his _fucking cracks_ –

and Emma is True Love and Light Magic and everything was perfect. Everything _is_ perfect and all he has to do, all he has to do for himself and for her is to keep it that way.

Her eyes fall to his hook, lying in the sand, and then his arm. Her lips press together, her eyes alight with something like understanding.

“It's okay,” she says, and takes hold of his arm. He grabs her wrist.

“Emma, don't-”

“It's fine,” she says gently. It's Mary Margaret in her smile when she looks up at him and at any other moment he would be beaming but no, no, these are the parts of him she is never meant to see.

She pries his fingers off her wrist, and before he can stop her she has a hold of his left arm, sliding down, fingers tracing the scars left by leather wearing away at the flesh for centuries. Then her hand is folding around the stump, thumb stroking gently across the masses of rough scar tissue.

He can't feel much of anything down there, after 300 years it's mostly all just numb. But he's shaking with something like shame and something like fear, head tipped back, teeth gritted together.

 _It's not supposed to be like this_.

It's not supposed to be like this. Emma's touch is supposed to heal, not hurt. They are supposed to fit together seamlessly and he shouldn't be scared, he shouldn't still be angry-

 _Everything should be fine now_.

But it isn't, and suddenly he doesn't know what to do, and he yanks his arm back. Stoops to snatch up his hook and brace, turns away, shoulders hunched.

“Killian?” Emma flinches at the harshness of his movement. She sounds confused, mostly, and he hates himself. Wants to turn and embrace her and let her smooth away all the rough edges, but if it doesn't work – if that doesn't work – where does that leave them?

“It's fine, love,” he forces out, “Just... I need to...”

He glances at her, desperately, and her eyes soften, she nods in understanding.

They know each other well enough to know when they need space, and right now he needs space like he needs air –

like he needs to get this damned brace back on, cover up the scars –

.

He kicks himself, later, for freaking out about it.

Except everything should be fine now. After everything they went through, finally finding each other, finally together...

The problem here is quite clearly not Emma.

.

“Are we going to talk about that?” Emma asks, when he returns later that day.

She is perfect, as always. Just the right amount of concern. Not enough to make him embarrassed. When she touches him, she does so carefully, just a light brush on his shoulder. He wants to kiss her. He wants to cry.

“Nothing to talk about, Emma,” he replies. She looks about to protest, and he adds, “I just... let's take it slowly for a bit?”

That seems to get her, and she nods, and he's the one to initiate the kiss. Slow and gentle and loving and if he closes his eyes and keeps his hook away, out of sight, under the table, he can feel everything falling back into place.

.

(He doesn't take off the brace around her again.)

.

(They should have talked about it.)

 

**NOW**

 

Their area of the woods is a hilly spot that just overhangs the water. They walk along the beach first, and the sand is frozen and crunches under their feet like shards of crystal glass.

Killian did not think it was possible to freeze sand.

He also did not think it was possible to freeze the sea, but Elsa has gone and done the God damn miraculous, because the entire bay and this cove is nothing but solid ice now.

“She's very powerful,” he says, mostly to himself.

“Captain Obvious to the rescue,” Emma replies, so quickly that he's pretty sure she didn't mean to say it out loud at all. He gapes at her, unsure if he should be insulted, but the way she looks flustered – and okay, she _definitely_ didn't mean to say it out loud – catches him off guard. Her cheeks burning red both from embarrassment and the cold, her hair curling around her face under the woollen beanie. The guilty expression on her face like a child caught in a lie.

He jerks his gaze away, kicks himself for staring, and kicks a particularly large frozen rock out of his path. It shatters upon contact with his boot.

.

They make for the woods next. There are long strands of crystals hanging from the trees where dripping rainwater froze solid into strings like Christmas lights. They're not on one of the hiking trails and every movement is slow, measured. The ground is slippery and the slopes are very steep.

They haven't spoken since the beach.

It has been a long time since they were alone together for such an extended period and Killian doesn't know what to think. It doesn't help that Emma is giving him little to work with. She is entirely focused on the task at hand, and okay, he probably should be as well. If anything it is the cold that distracts him from the little tug at his heart every time he looks over at her and wants to give her a hand, but can't help but remember her pulling away from his touch earlier in the loft.

They reach a very steep hill. The snow is slippery under their boots.

“Oh God damn it,” Emma groans, because they just struggled up another one. Before Killian can stop her she is charging up it, legs pumping furiously. She seems to think speed will lend her momentum.

She is barely three steps up when the ground slides away under her and she falls back down, landing on her backside with an _oof!_

“Swan! You okay?” Killian asks, rushing to her side.

She flaps him away. “Fine.”

Then he laughs, because it looked rather like something from one of those 'funniest home videos' that Henry is so taken with, and she stares at him, faux-annoyed before her own amusement takes over.

“Not my most dignified moment,” she says, and scrambles to her feet, brushing snow from her pants.

“Probably easier to go around,” he says. “I doubt Elsa went up there, unless she is secretly a mountain goat.”

“Hey, you never know, some of these powers are pretty crazy.”

“Ay? When are you going to learn to change form?” he asks, as they begin to pick their way around the hill – he lifts a strand of the crystal beads out of the way and she ducks underneath his arm.

“Who knows. Maybe I already have. Maybe I've been secretly spying on everyone here for ages. A literal fly on the wall. Would certainly help in my duties as sheriff.”

He opens his mouth to make a comeback about the sort of things she just might have caught while spying on him, when he suddenly catches himself.

Emma catches herself too, at the exact same moment, and their eyes meet as they both realise simultaneously that _this is not how things are anymore._

This easy banter, the flirting – he feels sick, suddenly, at exactly how easy it was to fall back into it. Ten minutes alone with each other and it was like nothing had even happened between them.

For a moment something flares up in him, something perilously close to hope, and he slams down on it. Shoves it violently away, furious at himself for daring to –

Emma has turned away, now, trudging through the snow, and he follows at a distance.

.

It gets dark, deeper within the forest. They turn on their torches. Then they pause, to look at the map.

“We're close to the edge,” Emma says. Her head is bowed over the paper and he can only see the top of her woollen hat in the circle of his torch's light. “Better move back in so we don't wander into Robin's part of the grid by accident.”

He nods, only she can't see it in the dark, and when she straightens up she misjudges the distance between them and slams into his chest.

He stumbles back a pace, catching himself against the tree behind him, Emma half-falling onto him. Her torch is held out at an odd angle, blasting both their faces into perfect clarity.

They are too close to each other.

They are too close, both of their eyes huge and wide, pupils shrinking nearly to nothing in the bright light. They are too close and he can see every dark hollow in her face, in her cheeks, under her eyes – she looks tired, too tired – and he can feel her breath heaving, and there is white mist mingling in the air between their lips, and they are both shivering violently from the cold, have been for the last hour so that they hardly even notice it now.

She pushes away first. Stumbles back with a croaked out, “Sorry.”

She scrambles to pick up the map from the ground, and for a moment Killian stays leaning back against the tree. He scrunches his eyes shut but he can see the bright imprint of her face burned into the back of his lids. He finds it hard to breathe of a sudden.

 _Stop_.

 _Just_ stop.

 _Stop with your foolish, foolish hope. What are you, a lovesick puppy or a grown man. Get over yourself, God damn it, get over_ her _. Get it into your thick skull. It's over. She chose that. Respect that choice._

“Killian?” Emma asks, hesitantly.

He opens his eyes and takes a deep breath. She is watching him, arms wrapped around herself tightly against the cold. Map scrunched in hand. She looks hesitant, almost like she wants to talk about what just happened-

 _Stop. Stop projecting. She doesn't want to talk about it,_ you _do._

He presses his lips together and walks past her, quickly, into the forest.

“Let's just find Elsa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who commented and left kudos. You bring me great joy :)


	3. glass i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got too long so I’m breaking it into 2 parts. The Emma segment will continue next chapter :)

 

  
 **THEN** _  
(and this storyteller is falling apart)_

  
Emma calls it 'selective observance', and it is very different to lying to yourself.

With selective observance, you notice all the little things that are wrong and out of place.

And then you ignore them.

It's different to lying to yourself because you don't pretend that you don't believe they exist. You just ignore them because it's easier, and less trouble, and dealing with them might make them worse, like when you pick at a scab you're not quite sure is healed yet. Sometimes they heal on their own, anyway.

The night before everything starts to go downhill, things are perfect. They watch Star Wars.

“ _Princess Leia_ ,” Killian exclaims, barely ten minutes in, and shoots Emma a very amused look.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, it's not like you weren't standing there like a stunned mullet. How hard is it to think of a fake name?” she says.

“When in doubt,” Henry supplies helpfully, “You should just say Bob.”

“Exactly,” Emma agrees. “Prince Bob. I mean, for God's sake, you had your pick of names. You could have said Prince Henry.”

“Alright, alright,” Killian says, raising his hand defensively, and mutters something about their ganging up on him.

It's cosy, despite the bickering, the three of them curled up on the couch under a mass of pillows and blankets. The apartment is small, with a waterfront view, and sometimes when Emma wakes up with the sunlight streaming through the window she almost can't believe this is all real. This is _home_ , because the loft was always Mary Margaret's and even in New York they moved around a lot. It's nice to have something that is just hers.

And Killian's. And Henry's. Sharing a space came almost unnaturally easy to them – and Emma had been surprised, at first, how quickly Henry had taken to having someone else in the house after it being just the two of them for twelve (fake) years.

But he had, and things were wonderful, even if she was constantly trying to get Killian to make Henry pick up after himself (Captain Neat Freak had been a surprise, and she was vaguely determined to instil discipline in the approaching teenage years).

Killian shoots her smug looks whenever Han appears onscreen, and Henry spends a very long time trying to explain exactly how the Force is different to magic, and there is shouting and laughter and a short-lived pillow fight, and above all Emma can't help but drink in the _fondness_ in the way that she sees Killian look at Henry. And the way Henry looks back at him, and both of them look at her, and everything, everything fits together so _perfectly_.

The next day is the anniversary.

There have been a lot of anniversaries in Emma's life and she has been trying to mentally repress most of them for a while. It gets a bit depressing when every other month it's all _'today was the day I entered my 13_ _th_ _foster home_ ' and ' _today was the day when I left it_ '.

The problem is, it's hard _not_ to remember them – or at least, not to remember the Swans. They were the longest and she still thinks about them every time she signs her name.

(She doesn't regret keeping it, though; she still remembers what David said about finding the good moments between the bad, and there were good moments with them. For a while, at least, and she has few enough of those from the first half of her life.)

For once she doesn't wake up and immediately have her mind turn to that child, six years old and confused about why her family is suddenly walking away from her. Instead she wakes with Killian's arm warm around her shoulders, pressing a gentle kiss into the back of her head.

It isn't until later that she even remembers what day it is. She's over at her parents', helping out while David goes to take his shift at the sheriff's station. Mary Margaret is exhausted, the new motherhood taking its toll on her.

Baby Neal is growing at a fast pace, already holding their gazes for longer periods of time and looking up when he recognises their voices from across the room.

“Thanks for coming over,” Mary Margaret says tiredly as she slumps down on the couch. Emma is holding Neal, letting him clutch at her fingers with his tiny hands as she bounces him on her knee.

“No problem,” Emma replies, with a half-grin. “I heard Regina has been coming around to help out.”

Mary Margaret smiles. “Yes. She has experience with babies – I think it's doing her some good.”

There's a very awkward pause as Emma processes that phrase – _experience with babies_ – because it's been weird, ever since New York. She still has the memories in her head – the fake ones. They didn't just disappear, remaining at the back of her mind, jammed in alongside her real ones. Sometimes it takes her a moment to remember what's real and what's fake.

Sometimes she doesn't know if she should be considering the fake ones to be real, because they're still _there_ – memories of raising her son from birth to adolescence. She still remembers how to hold a baby; this could just as easily be Henry in her arms.

She remembers something David told her once, something Jefferson said to him – _two lives stuck in our heads. Two lives forever at odds._

Maybe the Hatter wasn't so far off the mark.

“Pass him here,” Mary Margaret says then, holding her arms out, and as Emma stands up and leans forward to hand him over, her phone falls out of her pocket.

Two things happen at once then; Neal's attention is drawn by the noise. He gives a loud squeal and then his lips stretch into a wide, gummy smile.

At the same moment, Emma bends to pick up her phone. The fall turned on the screen and the date flashes out at her, and that's when she remembers, a sudden wave of sick nostalgia washing over her.

Suddenly when she looks up at Mary Margaret, cooing at Neal, all she can think is _new baby, new baby, new baby-_

 _Snap out of it_! She kicks herself, mentally, suddenly disgusted with herself because-

it was over ten years ago-

it was over _fifteen_ years ago, and she thought she was over this, over the lingering resentment and _for God's sake they're not_ replacing _you, you know that, they deserve this second chance just like you deserve all the second chances you've gotten since Henry came back to you_.

But she can't quite _help_ it, and when Mary Margaret holds Neal up to her, beaming, and says, “Emma, Emma, he smiled! Didn't you, Neal? Didn't you? Smile again, Neal,” suddenly the baby's name is just too strange.

It's something she's been ignoring for a while now, trying to laugh off and not think about, but _God_ it is weird having her little brother named after her ex-boyfriend. And sure, she reconciled with him, and considering he is _dead_ she can't quite bring herself to feel any more resentment towards him – but the point stands that while Mary Margaret and David might have been trying to do something nice for her in naming the baby after a man they barely knew, it only proves that this whole thing has been _rushed_. Rushed, and barely thought through, and she had no problem with them wanting a second child (or so she tells herself, anyway), but this soon? This _soon_?

Suddenly she just feels drained, and disgusted with herself, and vaguely guilty, and vaguely _angry_ – at herself, at everyone, and it's irrational but she can't stop –

“I have to go,” she says, standing, and Mary Margaret looks at her and must see something in her face because her expression falls in concern.

“Emma? Is everything alright?” She's trying to stand up, but can't quite pull herself up off the couch without manoeuvring the baby around on her lap. Emma holds out a hand to stop her.

“I'm fine, fine, I just...” she waves the phone vaguely. “Got a text. I'll come back around this evening, okay?”

“Okay,” Mary Margaret says, still sounding uneasy, and Emma flees the room.

She stops, out in the stairwell. Leans against the wall, lets her head thud back against the hard brick. Clenches her fists and _breathes_.

She feels sick because she thought this was over.

With their trip to the past – with her decision to stay – with _Killian_ , there for her at every turn. This was meant to be over. They weren't meant to be broken anymore.

 _Killian_ , she thinks – and she needs to see him, he'll make it okay, the way he always does. She turns and with shaking hands and shaking breath heads for the car.

.

She expects him to be at the station, helping David.

He is not at the station.

.

She expects him to be at the docks.

He is not at the docks.

.

Emma gets an uneasy feeling in her stomach as soon as she steps into the Rabbit Hole. It's not very crowded at this time of day, and her eyes find Killian easily.

He's sitting at a corner table with Smee and two men she doesn't recognise, but knows to be trouble as soon as she sees them. Something about the way Killian is sitting makes her pause as she crosses the room towards them. He's sprawled out in his chair, half-leaning against the wall, but his shoulders are tense, guarded. He's got his flask of rum in hand, and his hook is resting on the table.

Lately he has taken to keeping his hook out of sight whenever possible. By his side or on his knee. The way he's holding it now has it displayed in full prominence. Like he wants it to be seen, to be noticed by his companions.

She can't see his face from this angle, but as she takes small steps closer she picks up on other things. Snatches of their conversation, other little cues-

“He's not here,” Killian is saying, voice low and rough and almost nervous. “He's _dead_. Walked the bloody plank right in front of us.”

“She must have saved him,” Smee is saying, “She jumped right in after him.”

“Well, _she's_ not here."

“She is. They fished her out at the beach, remember?”

“Wasn't _her_. It was Zelena.”

Muffled contributions from the two men Emma doesn't know. She's stuck on the witch's name, it has made her freeze.

Killian's hook is scratching at the table, digging thin little grooves into the wood. It strikes something uneasy in her, because he is ridiculously careful with all the new furniture they have back at the apartment, to the point where he tends to replace his hook with the fake hand whenever they're at home.

“-telling you,” one of the men says then, and she's close enough now to make out their words clearly, “He's here. We saw him.”

“What's going on?” she asks, and her voice makes Killian jump, spinning around. The colour _drains_ from his face when he sees her, something like guilt twisting across her features, and suddenly she feels anxious, almost panicky, because--

 _what is happening here?_ Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong, because Killian should not be sneaking around and having furtive conversations with shady looking people in places like this.

“Emma,” he says, a little frantically, and suddenly he's smiling. Standing up, reaching out to take her by the elbow. “What are you doing here? Weren't you at Mary Margaret's?”

The men at the table have taken the hint and are quickly departing. Emma's eyes track their movement, but Killian tugs at her elbow until she turns back to look at him.

He's still smiling, reassuring, looking like he always does at home or out on picnics with her and Henry or laughing in the sheriff's station with David, and part of her wants to forget what she just saw. To believe that it was nothing, just him catching up with old crew members or whatever. Get back to what she came here for and let him comfort her the way she knows he will.

Let everything Be Fine.

_Selectively observe._

Except she can't, because that smile – that smile is a lie, and all the little things are coming back to her now, things she thought she could ignore, hoped were just little off-chances that she could ignore because everything would end up coming together perfectly in the end. They were meant to do that, with true love-

(and suddenly she remembers all the times she's seen him staring quiet and pensive out the window, at the water, and giving her that same smile when she catches him, just convincing enough that she lets him get away with it – )

“Emma,” he says, “is something wrong? Why are you here?”

(and he didn't used to hide his hook under the table, she realises – that is a new thing. That started happening after that odd, odd moment when she found him down on the beach – )

“What was that?” she asks, because she can't bring herself to just drop it, and that odd look flickers across his expression again.

(and all the times he tenses up and then won't talk about it – )

(and all the moments he goes quiet – )

“Nothing. Just some of my old crew.”

(and every time that reassuring smile like it's just a moment they can ignore and then get on with things – )

“Why were you talking about Zelena?” she asks, and he bites his lip.

(and there are a lot of moments and they do a lot of just getting on with things – )

“It's nothing, love. Old news.” And he's deflecting now, it's obvious, and he knows that she knows, and there's an awkward pause where she just _looks_ at him and wait for him to spill. Because this is what they do now. They open up to each other.

(and they didn't used to just get on with things, at the very start, it was all about openness and healing and somewhere along the line that changed, that _changed_ , and it became more about ignoring the little things because it was easier and happier and the relationship stopped being about moving on from things in the past and became about _forgetting about_ things in the past –

 _ignoring_ things in the past –

and that is something, Emma realises with dawning horror, that she has learnt through time and experience that you are never able to do.)

.

Emma has not been lying to herself. She has been selectively observing and somewhere along the line all the little things have built up and now, now she can't ignore them any more.

All the little tenses and touches and quiet moments and fake smiles when she knew, _knew,_ that something was off. Something was wrong.

And she didn't call him on it.

And now he's standing there looking at her with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes and he's _hiding_ something from her and she's kicking herself because-

 _It's not supposed to be like this_ –

She's not supposed to feel bad about her parents anymore and Killian is not supposed to have these big dark secrets anymore and both of them are supposed to come together. And heal the past together. And move on.

And now, staring at him, knowing that he hasn't moved on _at all_ -

How can she?

.

This time it is Emma who goes down to the beach. Skips a few stones into the water and clenches her fists and fights back tears.

The same hollow emptiness she still gets on every anniversary wells back up and she _lets it_ , feeling a dread disappointment because this should have been the one year when it didn't happen. When she finally felt secure in her family and her relationship. She should have moved on by now.

.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks that night, in bed – things have been a bit stilted, a bit awkward, and he sounds so _concerned_ – his eyes huge and wide, his touch tentative as it skims soothingly over her hair.

She looks at him and realises that what he has been doing with his fake smiles is the same thing she has been doing with her selective observance; moving past the bad moments quickly, frantically, instead of working through them.

Trying to make sure that they only have the good moments.

Trying too hard to make everything alright.

She opens her mouth, and this is it – her chance to stop it all, to force him to open up and work things out –

But it's late. And she's tired. And it's the anniversary, and some part of her is thinking, _tomorrow it will be better, we can move past this one too, it'll be just like it was before, no need to dwell on it –_

(and she won't admit it, but she's _scared_ , scared that if they bring everything up now they'll realise they are both _weak_ and maybe this isn't working out how it should)

(and it _has_ to work out how it should)

“No,” she says, and smiles at him, “It's fine. It's all fine.”

 

**NOW**

 

Emma's heart is pounding as they trudge through the frozen forest. She can feel it slamming in her chest, making it hard to breathe.

 _It's the air_ , she tells herself. It's the cold, cold air, numbing her lips and the back of her throat. It's the air that's making it hard to breathe, and the exertion of trudging through snow that's so deep her boots sink into it with each step.

Killian has been leading the way since they stopped to look at the map and she fell against him. Her cheeks burn just thinking about it.

 _Awkward_ , she tells herself, it was just awkward. The way touching Neal had been awkward after they got back from Manhattan.

Still, he hasn't spoken one word – and she's trailing behind him, shining her torch on his back as they walk deeper into the forest. When he stops suddenly, she pulls to a halt next to him, and almost instantly he takes a step sideways so that their arms aren't touching. She feels a flash of hurt that she quickly tries to bury down.

“She went this way,” Killian says.

“How can you tell?” Emma asks.

He casts the light of his torch about and then she sees it – little jagged spears of ice spreading up from the frost-slippery ground. The grass here is frozen completely solid and shatters under their every step. It looks like Elsa fell here, several times, and whenever she put her hands out to catch herself, her powers spiked out of control and sharp little ice formations rose up wherever she touched.

Emma's breath catches in her chest, because all her problems with magic have stemmed from not being able to draw on it when she needs it. She can't even imagine how terrifying it would be for her powers to be out of her control. For her to be unable to reign them in upon command.

“Let's go, we're close,” Killian says – and there's something off about his voice. It's deliberately, exaggeratedly stiff and flat, and when he starts to walk again Emma doesn't walk behind him, she comes up by his side, and _sees_ him balk at the motion.

Something snaps in her then.

Something hot and angry rises up in her stomach, because, what, he doesn't want to be out here with her? Guess what, buddy, she doesn't want to be out here either, and she sure as hell didn't _ask_ to fall against his chest like the damsel on some freakin' superhero poster.

This whole thing was a mess. The break-up was a mess.

And sure, sometimes – sometimes when she sees him and feels that tug at her heart and sees him give his stupid fake smile, sometimes she wonders if they could possible clean it up.

But she's had enough messes in her life to know that diving back into them has the potential to make things worse-

(and wasn't that how this all started, they were all so obsessed about not making things worse)

but if there's one thing she doesn't like, it's having her face _rubbed_ in those messes, and right now Killian might as well have been wearing a flashing neon sign saying _back off lady, we broke up, I want nothing to do with you anymore!_

“Something you want to tell me?” she snaps, as she stomps her way across the frozen grass. The tinkle of the blades breaking under her boots is satisfying; like popping sheets of bubble wrap (and _God_ almighty had it been hilarious when Killian had his first encounter with bubble wrap. But those are times she tries not to think about anymore.)

“What?” he asks, startled. He glances across at her and looks away a bit too quickly. Like he feels guilty for even doing it. “What- no?”

“Oh. Okay. Hold my torch, will you? I want to check the map again.” She passes the flashlight to him and he's very careful not to touch her hand when he takes it. That anger and hurt flares up in her again, because they're both wearing _gloves_ , for Christ's sake. What's his problem?

(Not that she particularly _wants_ him to touch her-)

(Except when he did, accidentally, back at the loft, a sudden shiver ran through her and it was like that electricity that had been there in Neverland, when she first started realising there was more to him than met the eye and there was the potential for _something_ , had suddenly returned, and it scared her more than it had back then-)

“She's heading for the ridge,” Emma realises. The ridge is a stiff cliff bank that protrudes out from the middle of the forest. Bad enough in inclement weather – probably a deathtrap in this snowstorm. “We should call the others.”

Except when she tries her phone, there's no signal, which yeah, should have figured in these conditions.

“Let's make sure first,” Killian suggests. “Then if we can't get to her ourselves, we'll call the others.”

She nods, and holds out her hand for the torch, and this time when he passes it back to her their fingers brush accidentally. It's barely even something they can feel, given the state of their chilblains after a few hours out here and the thick gloves they're both wearing, but Killian pulls back anyway, and Emma frowns.

“It's fine, you know,” she says, as they begin walking again. Her tone comes out more acidic than she intended, but she can't quite bring herself to care.

“What?” he asks, sounding confused.

“I'm your ex, not the plague.”

It's the first time she's used the word. It makes everything seem very final, even though it's been a month. Killian flinches a bit.

“That's not-”

“It's not? Oh, sorry. I must be imagining you trying as hard as you possibly can to avoid touching me.”

“I thought,” he says, through gritted teeth, “That out of courtesy, I would endeavour not to make you uncomfortable.”

It floors her for a second, and then she remembers – and isn't that just like him. Trying to be so careful. Doing everything he can to make sure she's not _uncomfortable_.

Working out pretty fucking well for him last time.

“Well, you _don't_ have to,” she says, and the anger is rising in her tone now, and it's everything that was missing from that last final confrontation (which can barely even be called a confrontation) – they weren't angry, they were calm. Too calm.

Then again, Killian had always tried so hard to stay calm, even when he should have gotten angry, and it had been so ridiculously out of character for him-

(and that was the problem, too, wasn't it, one of the many. Trying too hard to be something they weren't, to squeeze into that precious little mould of True Love no matter how trying might chip off their edges.)

“That's not how it works,” she informs him. “I thought we were going to try and make this normal. It's like you've never broken up with someone before.”

She means it half as a joke, half as an insult, but it isn't until he goes silent that she re-evaluates her words and thinks, _oh_ , and then she feels a sudden horrible wave of guilt.

She shouldn't. It's not like _she_ did anything wrong. Just – careless words.

Not really something they can afford nowadays.

Before either of them can say anything further, they step out of the trees into the clearing leading up to the ridge. There's no swirling snow in this area; the place is cold and still and eerily quiet, and there's enough light that they can switch off their torches.

Emma sucks in her breath.

The ridge looms up ahead of them, and there's a jagged, uneven looking staircase of ice stretching halfway up it to end at the doors of a massive edifice. It's a horrible looking thing, almost frightening in its abstract shapes and spires. Something halfway between a palace and a prison, all twisted blades of ice sticking out at odd angles. It looks like a child's construction of popsicle sticks, sheets and strips of ice boxing in one top of one another, like Elsa was frantically trying to layer things over and over herself. Close herself in. There are jagged bars formed by icicles that remind Emma of Rumplestiltskins' jail cell back in the Enchanted Forest.

“...at least there's a door,” is all Killian has to say about it.

“Yeah,” Emma replies, “If we can get to it.”

The clearing leading up to the staircase is a solid, slippery frozen sheet, but it's covered by perilous looking barbs and spikes of ice, sharp teeth protruding up from the surface.

Just _looking_ at it is making her anxious. Making something nervous well up in her stomach, because this – whatever Elsa has done – speaks far too clearly about the girl's mental state. Unstable. Jagged. _Dangerous_.

“Can you use magic at all?” Killian asks, and Emma shakes her head.

“Not to undo the snow. Regina already tried.”

“I meant to get us across. Float us or something of the sort?”

Emma bites her lip, because here's the thing – she hasn't used magic since the break-up. Hasn't had cause to, and now... now she's not sure if she can, because all the feelings are missing. The deep love and connection, or the frantic _need_ because they were in a dangerous situation – she's scared that if she tries now it won't work, and that's something she doesn't want to face just yet.

“I don't think so,” she says, carefully, and Killian looks at her for a moment before nodding.

“Well then,” he says, and claps his hands together briskly. “Nothing to be done.” And then he steps forward and nearly falls over as he slips on the ice.

It's automatic for Emma to reach out and grab his arm, holding him steady.

“Watch it!” she snaps. Her heart is beating too fast again, thrumming against her ribcage. “You'll hurt yourself.”

“Not much of an ice skater,” he mutters. “Do you suppose crawling would be easier?”

“I read somewhere you're meant to move like a penguin,” she says, and he blinks a few times, looking confused. “What, don't they have penguins where you're from?”

“I have no idea what those are, but I've not been to any climate that facilitates them,” he replies primly, and she bites her lip, amused despite herself. But no time for that.

“We go around the edge,” she says. “We can hold ourselves against the cliff wall, plus there's less of those dangerous spikes.”

He nods, and lets her lead the way, and for a little while things are almost going well. The ice is stupidly slippery and Emma finds that shuffling along kind of like a penguin actually helps keep her steady, and Killian quickly catches on and copies her.

She's the first to fall over, her feet sliding out from under her. The world tilts suddenly and then she's slamming hard against the ground, her shoulder and hip throbbing. Her beanie falls off her head and slides a little way away.

“You okay?” Killian calls out instantly, almost frantic with concern, and she nods, gasping to catch her breath.

“Fine, fine.”

He's crouched down next to her, pulling her up, his arm strong around her back. She can see the knees of his jeans growing wet from the ice's surface as he reaches out and snags her beanie with his hook.

Getting up is a lot harder than falling down was. It takes a lot of leaning against one another. Everywhere her hands press against him, she feels his muscles grow stiff and tense, and she's starting to get an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach.

It had surprised her, at first, how well he seemed to take the break up. She'd half expected him to come and ask her to give it another shot. For him to start flirting with her the way he had before they were even together.

But he hadn't. He'd kept his distance and given her space and smiled as politely as was expected of him, and it's only now – only now when she's touching him more than she has in the last four weeks and feeling him pull away – that it hits her that it's _gone_. Everything they had, it's gone forever and _he's_ gone forever and-

And she can't think about that now. Not when they're so close to Elsa.

He falls down next, slips onto his knees, and waves her off, managing to get back up on his own.

Rinse and repeat several times over. Sometimes they help each other, sometimes they don't, and every single time they both studiously avoid eye contact. By the time they reach the staircase they're both breathing so laboriously that there is a constant cloud of white fog floating around their faces. Emma is bruised and exhausted and she sits heavily on the bottom step only to find that it's made of ice and she is quite literally freezing her ass off. So then she's forced to stand up because the absolute last thing she wants is to get stuck to it and then have to be pulled up and more likely than not rip her pants.

“Home stretch then, Swan,” Killian says, tilting his head back up as he looks at the edifice, and Emma nods, wearily reaching out to grip the ice railing that thankfully accompanies the staircase.

As she steps up, her feet slide from under her, because the surface of the staircase is completely smooth as glass and slightly wet to boot.

Killian catches her around the waist, holding her steady in something almost like a hug, and she feels it suddenly again. That odd tingling electricity. Her breath catches, and he's startled enough by what just happened that he doesn't tense up.

The sensation of being held in his arms again sends a wave of emotion washing over her, because it's been so _long_ and it feels like even _longer_. And it's not perfect – he's cold and wet and his elbow is pressing painfully into a bruise she can feel forming from where she fell earlier – but it's enough.

Enough to confuse her.

As soon as she's steady he steps back, and she tries not to feel the loss, instead gritting her teeth together.

And then she begins to climb.

 


	4. glass ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cont. Emma segment from last chapter

 

  
 **THEN**  
 _(i'm not the one with my head to the gun)_

  
It takes one day of trying to pretend that everything is normal until Emma realises that it is impossible to pretend that everything is normal.

Now that she is certain something is up, she can't ignore it any longer. Every time she sees Killian smile or laugh she is thinking _fake fake fake fake –_

and she can't look at him without _wondering_ what is going on –

but at the same time she's terrified to confront it, to lay it all out bare, because things had been going so wonderfully and what if this ruins everything? And she _can't_ be the one who ruins everything. Not again, not when she knows it will send her back into that spiral of self-blame (and she's half there already, wondering what she did wrong that Killian doesn't trust her anymore, angry at herself and angry at him because _he_ is meant to be the one _she_ can trust, and this is meant to be the one thing that actually _works out_ ).

Suddenly they are out of sync with each other, both of them on edge and trying desperately to hide it, and they keep seeming to get things wrong.

When Emma wants space, Killian will hang around her, will desperately try to ask what is wrong and make things okay and smile and smile and smile-

When Killian gets into a mood and spends too much time staring out the window before going down to the docks, Emma will let him, figuring he needs to be alone, only for him to come back later looking lonely and vaguely upset and leaving a sick sort of guilt in her stomach because maybe even if they didn't talk she should have gone with him to give him some company-

It's not either of their faults, but it feels _wrong_ , because they were so in-tune with each other before this, but now they're out of step at every turn and so steadfastly _not_ talking about it that she thinks she is going to explode, and it's only so long before things boil over and she knows this can only end in a fight-

.

It ends in a fight.

.

They're at the sheriff's station when it happens, doing paperwork, mostly – even after Zelena's defeat there are still too many things to deal with around the town. Grudges carried over from the year in the Forest, complaints about the current bartering system, the growth of what Emma suspects is a black market for enchanted items.

David has just stepped out to get coffee and Emma is contemplating the biscuit tin when she feels Killian's eyes watching her. She goes stiff, hand halfway to a delta cream. Normally she would turn with a smile, expecting him to be watching her with that easy affection, that love in his eyes that never ceases to surprise her. He still does, and often, but now she notices other looks. Darting, almost pained glances, like the way he looked at her in the stairwell that night he'd suddenly seemed so distant. She knows now that he was cursed, that that was why – but what is it now?

Gathering her courage, she glances over her shoulder to indeed find Killian staring at her intently. Something's different, though – he seems worried.

“Emma?” he says, and ventures closer, perching against the edge of the desk opposite hers.

“Yeah?” she replies, suddenly nervous, unsure what is going on.

“Is everything okay?” he asks then, gently. “You've seemed... on-edge lately.”

Her stomach sinks. He noticed – of _course_ he noticed, nothing about the last few days has been subtle. It has been a _pathetic attempt_ at subtle that just failed miserably. And now he's worried about her.

“Is something wrong?” he continues, and before she can quite stop the words coming out, she answers:

“You."

There's a horrible moment of silence in which he stares at her, taken aback, before jolting back in a delayed reaction like she's hit him. He looks confused, then afraid, as though he thinks she knows more than she actually does (and she knows nothing, _nothing_ , she _wishes_ she knew what was going on, why things are suddenly like this), then... hurt.

He doesn't seem to quite know what to say, and she immediately regrets even saying anything, because the sheer awkwardness of the silence is only proving to her second by second that this isn't the right time or the right place, and David will be back in ten minutes, and she doesn't know how to express what she's thinking-

“I... what?” he settles on, finally, eyes wide as he looks at her.

“I mean,” she says, trying to explain, “Things have been... different, lately, surely... surely you noticed?”

He bites his lip, looking faintly horrified. Looking like he has been caught out.

“Killian,” she says then. She sits up straighter. Now that she's opened this can of worms there's nothing to be done but just go through with it. “What's going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm not the only one who's been 'on-edge', if that's what you're calling it. Why were you talking about Zelena before? What's going on that you're not telling me? Are you... have you done something?”

“No!” he snaps, “I- what? No, I haven't _done anything_.”

“Then _what_?” she demands, suddenly so _frustrated_. “What _is it_ , Killian, because it seems like one day everything was going fine and then suddenly... suddenly it _wasn't_.”

Except that's not true, because this has been building up for a long time, and her superpower has always been dodgy when it comes to things that are close and personal and right now Killian's not lying – at least not directly – but he is still hiding something, and he seems almost _guilty_.

When he speaks it's through gritted teeth and Emma thinks _good_. She wants him to get angry, wants him to explode, because that's when the truth comes out. That's what she _needs_ , something raw and honest and not a mask.

“I've been working through some stuff,” he says.

“We used to work through stuff _together_ ,” she replies, urgently, and he just shakes his head. She can _see_ him forcing down whatever it is he wants to say. See him forcing himself to remain calm and pleasant and _stop stop just stop_.

“It's not something you want to deal with.”

“Don't tell me what I want and don't want,” she snaps, enraged now, but Killian just keep shaking his head and refusing to get angry, and suddenly her fists are clenched and she wants him to snap back to how he was – passionate and frank and bluntly honest. “Just _tell me_.”

“I don't _want to_.”

“Why not?!”

“Because it will _ruin everything_ ,” and there, the first flickers of emotion, “The past is in the past, Emma, let me deal with this. Don't make me put this on your shoulders because-"

“Because _what_?” she demands, standing up, “You don't think I can _handle it_?”

“That's not what-”

“Then what _are_ you saying?” She flings her hands up, “Lay it out straight for me, buddy, because I'm confused. What are you saying? Just tell me what you've done. I told you before and I'll say it again, I don't care about the past.”

“Then why are you so desperate to know?” Killian asks, and he's so calm and rational and still _deflecting_ that Emma just can't deal with it anymore. Just _stops_ , because if she pushes any more she'll start saying things she doesn't mean, or maybe things that she secretly _does_ mean and just doesn't want to come out, and there's a sick dread in her stomach now because part of her doesn't want to know what he's hiding if he really thinks it would affect them that badly.

At that moment the door to the station swings open and David re-enters, whistling cheerfully. Emma sees the way Killian hesitates before turning to him with a manufactured grin – _so that's how it is,_ she thinks bitterly, _we're just going to pretend this didn't happen_ – and pulls a biscuit from the tin before eating it aggressively in Killian's direction.

.

If they had screamed, she thinks later, it would have been so much better.

If they had shouted and screamed at each other and let everything out. Like lancing a boil or having a go at a punching bag. They'd be tired afterwards, bruised, but all cards would be on the table and they wouldn't have this terrible frittering _tension_ around them.

But they didn't scream – _he_ wouldn't, and so here they are.

“I'm sorry,” he says, later that night. It's quiet and late and Henry has gone to bed. Emma is sitting on the couch huddled in a pile of cushions watching a documentary with the sound turned so low she can barely hear it. She's not paying all that much attention anyway, letting her eyes scan vacantly across the colours and shapes on the screen, her mind drifting but never settling.

She bites her lip and doesn't turn to face him. Feels him sit down on the other end of the couch.

“Emma?” he asks then. “I'm sorry. I just want everything to stay fine. For you. There's been enough drama already.”

And that, if anything, is what makes her let it go – _there's been enough drama already_ – because there _has_ , and things are so peaceful now. No more witches and wizards and flying monkeys. And Henry is sleeping obliviously in the other room, blissfully unaware, and if they fight now they'll wake him up.

So Killian doesn't explain, and Emma doesn't ask again, and she lets him take her hand and settle against the cushions with her.

And so their first fight isn't much of a fight at all, but maybe things would have turned out better if it had been.

.

“So what's going on with you and Killian?” Ruby asks.

Emma glances up from her coffee with a small frown and tries not to look _too_ alarmed. Ruby snaps a dishcloth at her and tuts.

“I'm not blind, Emma.”

Emma glances around the diner, but it's early and there aren't all that many people there. No one close enough to overhear their conversation, at any rate. “I just didn't think...”

“Nah,” Ruby continues quickly, “It's not obvious.” She taps the side of her nose. “Combination of wolf senses and working in a place where you see fights and dramas playing out every other day. So what's up with you two?”

“God, I wish I knew,” Emma groans. It's a relief to let it out, to talk it through with someone – but at the same she's not exactly close to Ruby. They're friends, sure, but since the curse broke she's been acutely aware of the fact that just about every person she knows in the town was Mary Margaret's friend long before they were hers. The exceptions were August, Graham – Killian, but two out of three of them are gone and sometimes it feels like the third is slipping away more and more each day.

“Something's bothering him – or something like that – and he won't tell me what,” Emma explains, and it's only when she notices how vague that sounds that she realises how much all of this is... well, not in her head, but in the little things that it's hard to express to someone else. The gaps and silences that used to be full.

Ruby bites her lip. “You asked him?”

“Yeah, he wouldn't tell me. Says it doesn't matter. It does, though, because he's... different, and it's making me different too.”

Ruby lays down her cloth and leans forward on her elbows. She looks as though she isn't sure she should say what she wants to say, but Emma gives her an intent, almost pleading stare, and after a moment she sighs.

“Look, Emma, I'm not... I don't know the details of the situation, so this might be totally irrelevant, but... you know people talk about you guys, right?”

“What?” Emma asks, a bit blankly, and Ruby glances around the diner.

“I know it's weird thinking about it when we're here, in this world, but... you guys are royalty. You're practically the celebrities of this town. And the people we hang out with, the ones we see every day? They're the inner circle. Everyone else in Storybrooke are like the people who read the Daily Mail and leave mean comments about Kate Middleton.”

“Um,” Emma says, and then, “What,” because celebrity? Not even close to how she views herself, and Ruby must see her doubt because she quickly adds:

“Nothing _close_ to that scale, but you get my point. The amount of drama in this town means people have something to talk about. That something being your family.”

“What does that have to do with things?” Emma asks, except she's starting to get an uncomfortable feeling.

“I'm not saying people disapprove of your relationship but the way they talk about it? It's always 'the princess and the pirate' or 'the saviour and the pirate',” she explains. “And that... creates a dichotomy; like you're the good and he's the bad. I know it's not like that and they don't _mean_ any harm, but it's...” she shakes her head, looks down, something like vulnerability flashing across her face. “Sometimes when you've done bad things it's not something you want to talk about or bring up, especially when you're in the spotlight.”

Emma takes it in, and realises that she has no idea how to feel about that. It's not something she particularly thought about before, and suddenly she feels angry, because what other people think shouldn't matter – _doesn't_ matter, not to her at least, and she's ninety nine percent sure that Killian gives fuck all what other people think about them too, but what if Ruby has a point – what if that _is_ feeding into things?

Except the last time she even tried to bring things up, nothing changed – if anything, things just got even more stilted, so now she has no idea what to do.

Ruby must see the look on her face, because she presses her lips together and smiles reassuringly, reaching out to jostle Emma's shoulder.

“Don't worry,” she says, “It'll all be fine. I mean, look at Snow and David! That's the thing about true love. Things are rocky but in the end everything turns out perfectly. Happily ever after.”

Emma forces a smile back, but it fades as soon as Ruby turns away.

 _The problem is,_ she thinks, _I thought this already was the end_.

 

**NOW**

 

“Elsa?” Emma calls out, as she finally reaches the doors of the edifice.

Climbing those stairs was a nightmare. It was like a fun park ride that she did once at Coney Island with Henry (except she didn't, really, it was all just a fake memory, but she remembers it like it was real) – a moving floor that made your feet slide every which way until you spent more time on the ground than upright. She ended up half-crawling most of the way and studiously trying not to think of the view she was probably giving Killian, moving behind her.

He didn't comment on it.

Once he would have commented on it, and she tries not to think about where that puts them now (and _we'll stay friends_ is a lie because they were never _just_ friends, not really) –

“Elsa?” she tries, again, and pushes at the doors, expecting them to be sealed shut – they look like solid ice.

To her surprise, they swing open slowly. She feels Killian come up next to her and half of her expects him to rest a hand against her back – he's standing farthest from the stair rail – but he doesn't, and she feels the lack of contact acutely.

There's no reply from inside, and they exchange a glance before stepping in.

Emma has to suppress a gasp, because for all that the exterior of Elsa's construction is grotesque and frightening and a bit surreal, the inside is... beautiful. The jagged peaks and edges of the outside are gone; instead an octagonal room remains with smooth panels of ice sloping up each wall to end in a domed ceiling. There are windows, of a sort, openings covered in barred icicles through which slants of moonlight shine. The light reflects and shimmers through the ice, through which she can see the forest and bay outside, distorted and translucent as though they are seeing the world through a sheet of frosted glass.

It is beautiful and smooth but at the same time reminds Emma a little too much of a prison cell, blank and bare. Not just a prison cell, but the sort of barren, institutional padded rooms she has seen in horror movie asylums.

In the centre of the floor Elsa is huddled in a foetal position. Emma can see her shoulders heaving, her whole body shaking as though she is sobbing violently, but she makes no sound. At their entrance, however, she stirs, uncurling to look up at them.

Emma feels a terrible pang rip through her as she takes in Elsa's face. She looks broken, there is no other way of putting it. Her face is streaked with tear tracks, but the tears themselves have frozen to her skin, little crystals of ice scattered down her cheeks. Her eyes are huge, something devastated in them.

When she sees them, she scrambles back across the floor.

“Stay back!” she cries. “I'm dangerous!”

“Elsa,” Emma starts, holding out a placating hand. “Calm down.”

“You need to _go away_.” Her arms are wrapped around herself, hugging tightly as though to keep her powers trapped inside, but the room around them is already beginning to change. The ice on the walls is distorting, cracking in places and growing in others, icicles arcing down from the ceiling.

Emma takes a few steps forward. The floor here is rougher, less slippery, and she can move quite easily. “Please, Elsa, just calm down. We're here to help you.”

“You can't help me, no one can. Please go, go before I hurt you!”

“Elsa, just breathe,” Emma tries again. “Please, look, just tell us what's wrong. You got your memories back, then what happened? We can help-”

“You _can't help_!” her voice cracks, and suddenly her shoulders are shaking again and the words are spilling out between sobs, “It's all my fault, it's my _fault_ , Anna, Anna-”

“Who's Anna?” Emma stops in the middle of the room. Elsa has shifted back against the far wall, knees drawn to her chest, and Killian is still standing by the door – she exchanges glances with him. He looks worried and as helpless as she feels.

“My sister.” Elsa's voice is a whisper but it echoes through the domed ceiling. “I froze it. I froze everything.”

“Back where you came from?” Emma asks. They hadn't been able to determine how long Elsa had been trapped in the urn. All Rumplestiltskin had to offer was that it had been a very long time, she had likely been some sort of royalty, and since no one in the Forest could remember her kingdom, it had probably been a few generations since.

Elsa nods. “Arendelle. I remember it. I remember everything. I was going to be Queen but my powers – I was hiding them, and then I couldn't, and I accidentally... I froze everything, so I ran, but Anna came to find me.”

“And then what?” Emma prompts.

Elsa shakes her head violently. “She tried to... to stop me, but I accidentally. I hurt her. And then Hans... he was going to marry Anna, he said he loved her, but it was all a lie. He wanted the kingdom. He captured me and... and trapped me in the urn.” The ice around them shimmers, changes colour – grows dark and almost black. “She's dead. She's dead because of _me_.”

“Elsa, you don't know that-”

“I _do_ ,” Elsa cries, and the whole edifice shakes. “I froze her heart. Nothing can cure that but True Love's kiss. And Hans wasn't her true love.”

“Maybe someone else-”

“There wasn't _time_. I froze the land and I killed my sister. It's all because of _this._ ” She holds up her hands, stares at them as though they disgust her. “I can't control it. I'm a monster.”

Emma bites her lip. She can _see_ Elsa's pain, both on her face and reflected in the ice around them. And she doesn't know what to do or say, she's out of her depth here. She wishes she could reassure the girl, could tell her there was some sort of deus ex machina, Walt Disney happy ending – but she can't think of anything. It doesn't help that they hadn't been able to work out Elsa's fairytale counterpart – the Snow Queen had been their best bet, but it didn't quite fit, and the only other ones they could think of were Jack Frost or the White Witch from Narnia.

Elsa buries her face in her hands and goes quiet. The temperature in the room drops exponentially, and Emma shivers. She's still lost for words. Doesn't know what to do or say.

“Elsa,” she tries, finally, “It wasn't your fault. It was this Hans, he did everything. But you're safe here, in Storybrooke.”

“It was my powers,” Elsa insists. Emma gets the feeling she isn't listening to a word she's saying. “I started it all. I can't control them. I'll hurt everyone here. I don't know how to unfreeze things.”

“You _do_ know how to control them,” Emma says. “Regina taught you. Remember?”

But Elsa isn't listening, trapped in her hysterical fear, and Emma is at a loss.

Suddenly there's a hand on her shoulder, and she turns to see Killian. He nods gently towards Elsa, a silent _let me have a try_ , and she feels an instant sort of relief. She's not sure why, maybe because it's been taken off her hands, maybe because on some level she knows how Elsa feels – everything spiralling out of control, unsure of herself and what she's doing and doubting that everything will turn out okay – it's like Neverland all over again, desperate and afraid... but every step of the way, Killian was there for her, a solidly reassuring presence. Maybe it will help for Elsa too.

She nods back. Killian steps past her and crouches just in front of Elsa – not quite close enough to touch her, or make her panic. She still refuses to look at him, head buried in her hands, shaking silently. Little tendrils of ice are sliding like tears down the walls behind her.

“Elsa,” Killian says softly, “It gets worse when you panic. Calm down and it'll be easier to control. Just breathe with me, come on.”

He does some exaggerated Darth Vader breathing and for a moment Elsa continues to heave, almost hyperventilating, but then some instinct seems to kick in and she follows his example, breathing in and out slowly. The ice slowly fades from black to a dull sort of yellow.

“That's right, there's a good girl.” He sits back on his heels, still making no move to touch her. “See? That's easier now, isn't it.”

Elsa shakes her head. “I can't...”

“You're fine, okay? Remember last week, you were making snow men for the children. You could control it then.”

“That was before.”

“Nothing has changed. You're just scared.”

“No, no, you don't _get it_ ,” and her head snaps up, more icicles spearing down from the ceiling around her, “That was _before_! Now I know... now I know what I've _done_ ,” and she stares at her hands again, shakes them violently. “I'm _not_ in control. These powers are... are a _curse_ , and now I've cursed Storybrooke and _please, just leave, I don't want to hurt you_!”

“Killian,” Emma starts, worried – the whole edifice is shaking again and she's worried it will collapse.

He ignores her, and scoots across in front of Elsa. “Look at me, okay, Elsa? What happened in Arendelle, that was long ago. You've changed now. Regina's helped you control them. You were doing fine. The past came up and you got scared but that is _over_. This is different. It's not going to happen all over again.”

“You don't _understand_.” She scrambles to her feet and Killian belatedly seems to realise that if something happens he'll be directly in the blast zone, and stands up, taking a few steps back. Emma grabs his arm and tugs him back towards her.

Elsa's hands are clenched into fists. She's breathing heavily as she says, “ _Nothing_ has changed, nothing _can_ change. This is a curse and _I_ am a curse and I can't... I'm not _better_ , I can't _control it_. If I couldn't even protect my sister I can't... I can't protect all of you. Everything will just happen all over again. That's why you need to _stay away_.”

They stand, frozen, unsure what to do, and Elsa lets out a feverish sob.

“You need to _go_.” She swipes her hand at them and they both jump back as a sharp row of spikes shoots out of the ground towards them.

Elsa rears back immediately, clasping her hands together, trying to stop, but more and more ice begins shooting in their direction.

Emma pulls at Killian's arm, dragging him back towards the doors. They manage to stumble out just before the huge doors slam shut behind them, but the danger doesn't end there. The whole staircase starts to splinter and fall apart, and Emma makes a dash for it. She slips almost instantly and tumbles painfully down the rest of the way to land face-down at the bottom in a thankfully soft patch of snow, aching all over from where her elbows, shin, hip, struck the hard edges of the steps.

Killian lands next to her a moment later, sprawled in the snow with a pained grunt, and suddenly a shower of chunks and splinters of ice rains down on them as the stairs collapse and fall apart. Emma starts to duck down, covering her head, when Killian grabs her and yanks her close to his side, hunching over her to shield her body with his own.

Moments later the sound of cracking ice dies down, leaving them in silence save for the howling of the wind.

Killian straightens up slowly, wincing a bit, and Emma looks around.

The edifice remains up on the ridge, but there is no way to reach it now. The storm is starting up again, snow swirling at the edges of the clearing. And Elsa is up there, hidden away, trapped in her own hysteria.

“You okay?” Killian asks.

Emma nods, tugging her beanie down more firmly over her head.

Suddenly it hits her – they failed, they _failed_ , they couldn't even bring Elsa back – and she knows it's not her fault, that Regina is their best bet to calm the girl down, but combined with everything that's been happening lately she just feels _sick_ and _tired_ and beaten down, and when Killian reaches a hand out to help her she bats it away and gets to her feet on her own. Her hip aches where she hit it on the stairs, but she ignores it, grimly turning to make her way back across the ice (and that will be oh so fun, as though she wasn't bruised enough already).

“Emma?” Killian asks, concerned.

“I'm fine,” she snaps back, and doesn't turn to look at him. “I'm fine. Let's just go get Regina.”

 


	5. blackbeard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait!

**THEN  
** _(ten thousand years and you're still on your own)_

  
Jefferson had had him worried about cracks, but right now things are far beyond that. Things are kind of, maybe, definitely falling to pieces right before Killian's eyes.

And it is mostly Blackbeard's fault.

.

The fight rattles Killian because he had been so sure, _so sure_ , that Emma did not suspect a thing. That he had been holding it all together and not ruining everything. That he could just smile and smile and –

_everything is going to be okay –_

But everything is not okay. There is fear in Smee's eyes, doubt in Emma's touch, whispers on the streets of darknesses that do not belong in Storybrooke, and Killian watched Blackbeard fall into the frothing sea and he is supposed to be dead, dead, dead –

.

He wakes with a start in the night, covered in a cold sweat. The unnatural green glyphs of the alarm clock shine out into the darkness. _2.27 a.m._ They remind him the pixie lights of Neverland; unnatural – of all the things in this modern world the constant _light_ everywhere has been one of the hardest to get used to.

Emma stirs beside him. She is a light sleeper, already rousing, one hand coming to his shoulder the way it always does.

“Okay?” she asks.

He opens his mouth and pauses.

He tells her, usually. If it is the Crocodile that haunts his rest, or Milah, if it is Zelena and drowning or his crew in the Echo Cave. Even when it is Liam.

But it is dark hair and blue eyes and red velvet behind his eyelids this time, and sometimes Blackbeard reminds him too much of his father

(too much of himself)

“Fine,” he replies, a little too curtly. If he smiles now she won't be able to see. It's too dark. So he slips out of the bed, ignores her small, questioning noise, and locks himself in the bathroom where he stands, hand braced against the wall, forehead pressed to the cold glass of the mirror hard enough to leave a mark, watching his breath fog the surface before him.

_Everything is going to be okay._

Emma is asleep by the time he returns to the bed, or maybe she isn't, but either way she doesn't turn to him and doesn't push. Once he would have been relieved, now it just feels... wrong, like she's avoiding the questions not because she knows to give him space but because she's afraid of the answer.

That makes two of them, at least, and he kicks himself for thinking that because –

_everything is going to be okay –_

_._

The problem is – the problem is, if she's already upset at him for not sharing, how badly will she react to the secret? The problem is – she doesn’t suspect this, could never suspect _this_ , and she praised him for helping Ariel. The problem is Blackbeard should be dead, the problem is he didn't tell her before and it's too late now, the problem is it gets bigger and bigger every day –

(the problem is, he is a coward)

And now they're both putting on faces, her smiles are as fake as his, and he keeps waiting for her to bring it up.

But she doesn't.

And he keeps trying to bring it up, but the words choke like sand in his throat and he can't, he can't, he can't.

.

And then Blackbeard dies, again, this time permanently.

.

They get the call early in the morning, when a passing jogger spies the body floating in the bay.

“Unidentified male, looks like murder,” Emma says grimly – except when they show up Killian's heart drops because there's no way he wouldn't be able to recognise the other pirate, even with his hair cut short and in the clothes of this world.

He helps David fish the corpse out of the water, and seeing him lying there – pale eyes staring up at the grey sky, red watery blood running from a wound at the back of his head – he doesn't feel relief. He just feels faintly sick.

“Oh, it's Blackbeard,” Emma says – he isn't sure how she recognises him – “He can't have been dead very long, he's still bleeding.”

Killian barely registers her words. He has stepped back away from them, somehow unable to stop biting his lip, guilt clawing at the sides of his stomach like it wants to burst free – and then, because things aren't somehow already bad enough, Smee chooses that moment to approach from where he is hanging around.

“Captain? Is that Blackbeard?” he asks.

Killian nods. “Aye.”

“Oh thank God,” Smee says, and presses his arm, “You took care of him. I was starting to get worried.”

Emma and David's heads whip around, and the idiot has spoken too loudly – apparently he thought Killian was standing far enough away the others wouldn't overhear – and dread laps over him like the water against the edge of the docks. Emma's stare is shocked, scared – accusing.

“Killian?” she asks, voice hard. “What does he mean, 'you took care of him'?”

Killian shakes Smee's hand off his arm, and makes an attempt at glaring that doesn't quite work. He wants to feel angry, wants to rouse himself to violence and quick, sharp action, but a lethargy weighs down on him that he can't shake off no matter how much he tries.

“This wasn't me,” he says.

“What?” David asks, seeming confused.

“What?” Smee echoes, eyes wide and round as coins.

“This wasn't _me_ ,” Killian repeats, emphatically. “Gods know we had our differences, but I didn't _kill_ him.” And then, with a hard-edged sneer he hasn't worn in a very long time, “If I had I certainly wouldn't have left the evidence somewhere so _obvious_.”

David nods, satisfied, easily accepting his words, and pulls out his phone, moving off a few paces to call someone about taking away the body. Smee takes the chance to scamper away, but Emma, Emma-

Emma looks at him like she isn't sure she can believe what he just said, and that's the moment when Killian realises.

For all his covering up, for all his plastering false smiles and false words over the spreading cracks, it hasn't worked, it hasn't _worked_ , and maybe he didn't see it because he didn't want to see it, but he has _broken things_.

Because two weeks ago, _one_ week ago, Emma would have trusted him without a second thought. Would have believed that he had changed, that these sorts of things – grudges and revenge and bodies showing up – that's the work of a pirate, not a... not a hero. The label hadn't stuck, had always felt ill-fitting, like a uniform he hadn't worn in too long, but now it leaves more than a bad taste in his mouth.

She doesn't believe him.

She _doubts him_ , and it shows, and _oh God oh God he has to fix this, he has to fix it_ now _-_

“Killian, help David with this. I'm going back to the station to question the jogger,” she says, and leaves before he can reply.

.

“We need to talk,” he says when they return to the station. His clothes are wet from where he helped pick up the waterlogged body, and cling to him in damp cold patches. It's too warm inside the station compared to outside; overly humid like it was back in Neverland.

“Not now,” Emma says, and doesn't look up.

.

“Emma,” he says, as they drive to the Rabbit Hole to ask some questions. The silence in the car is oppressive and there's a storm brewing outside; an electric tingle in the air and the dull, aching phantom pain in his hand that bad weather always brings.

“Not now,” she replies, and he grits his teeth, hating himself for almost feeling _relieved_ – that she's putting off the conversation, the confrontation – the moment when she'll have to _know_ , when it will all come crashing down.

_Everything's going to be –_

Except it's not, and he knows it.

 

**NOW**

 

Emma is tense and silent as they slog their way back through the snow-ridden woods towards the town.

She is upset, Killian is reading that loud and clear. The problem is, he feels like it's more than just Elsa, but digging deeper seems presumptuous now that they are, well, what they are.

He walks a few paces behind her. The wind is howling loudly now, the trees around them bending and swaying with the force of it, and there's so much fog and snow swirling in the air that he's hard pressed to keep sight of Emma's bright red jacket in front of him.

“Emma,” he calls out, when a branch snaps and whips through the air, forcing him to duck sideways to avoid being brained.

She doesn't seem to hear him, continuing to trudge purposefully along, and he hesitates before reaching out to grab her arm.

She spins around when he touches her, and he pulls back quickly.

“What?” she snaps.

“The storm,” he says. It has been worsening exponentially every since they left Elsa, and he doesn't want to think about what she might be going through, up there in her self-imposed prison of ice. “It's getting bad. There's still a long walk back to town – we might not be able to get back across the beach.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Stopping and finding shelter. If I recall, there's an old cabin in the woods somewhere near here. We could stop, wait it out a bit.”

“Wait it out?” she demands. She flings an arm back in the direction of Elsa. “She's not going to just _calm down,_ Killian. She'll freeze the entire town at this rate. She's bringing the second Ice Age down upon us and it's only going to get worse!”

He bites his lip. She's angry, she knows. Angry that they failed, angry that this trip was for nothing. Tired and frustrated and it's not about him. It's not about them.

But it's hard not to take to personally, especially since she got so upset on the way here. She seemed... _hurt_ , that he had been avoiding contact with her, but he had honestly thought that was the best thing. Best not to be too familiar, to allow her her own space. And Gods damn it, he was _aching_ to touch her, to speak to her, to get as close to her as it would allow.

Even if it hurt, more than it had before they had ever gotten together.

He didn't know what she wanted. Best to play it safe.

“Emma,” he says, calmly. “Just stop. _Look_ at this storm. It's not safe to be out here.”

She pauses and looks around, breathing heavily, and seems to belatedly realise just how _cold_ it is out there. Finally, she gives a curt nod.

“Fine. I'll call David once we're there and maybe he can come pick us up in the truck.”

He nods, and they make their way in silence into the forest. It's hard to move in woodland in the best of conditions, but with the storm quickly becoming more of a blizzard, every step is a trial. Killian gets so worried that he's going to lose Emma in the swirling white that he makes the tactical decision to come up next to her and take hold of her arm.

He feels her stiffen in his grasp, sees her turn to look at him, but keeps his gaze fixedly ahead, trying to ignore the churning in his stomach almost as violent as the snow around them. Leading the way, he follows what he hopes is the path he remembers to the cabin.

Sure enough, the ramshackle little building emerges out of the weather before them, and he hears Emma let out a noise of relief.

The sound of the wind cuts out as soon as they're inside with the door shut behind them. He hadn't realise how loud it was until it's suddenly dulled out.

The cabin is more of a shed, a one-room, empty building made of wood. There's a gap under the door, and two small windows that are completely frosted over. Cracks in the boarding are letting in tiny currents of wind, and only the most meagre scraps of light. He can barely see Emma in the dark behind them.

“Crap,” Emma says, and he turns towards her.

“What's wrong?”

“No reception. I think this storm might have knocked all the power out.” He hears a thud as she kicks the wall. Sees her dim outline slide down to sit on the floor.

He sits down as well, a careful distance between them.

Now that they're not getting snowed on, he realises just how _cold_ he is; his extremities are so numb he can barely feel them and he is shivering so intently that he hardly notices it any more. The amount of falling over they did on the ice and the stairs means that his clothes are uncomfortably wet. The floor of the cabin is wet as well; they brought a trail of slush in with them when they entered and it's seeping across the boards.

He pulls his knees up to his chest and folds his arms around them, curling up to conserve as much heat as possible. Most of him aches to reach out to Emma, to wrap his arms around her and at least attempt to keep her warm, but he can practically feel the frustration and anger radiating off her, and he doesn't want to push when she may not want him to.

“It's fine, lass,” he ventures. “Just... stay calm.”

She gives a mighty snort. “It's _not_ fine, Killian. God, I wish you'd stop _saying_ that. It's not fine. _Nothing_ is fine.”

He bites his lip, falling silent, and it comes back to him suddenly – a quiet bedroom, the sound of the water lapping against the pier a mocking beat in the background, her voice rising in frustrated distress. _You do it to yourself_.

Emma stirs when he doesn't reply.

“I... sorry,” she says. He hears a rustle of fabric. “I just... I feel so _useless_. We couldn't even talk Elsa down.”

“It's fine,” he replies, quietly.

“I don't know what she thinks she's doing.” The words fall from Emma's lips like she has no control over them. Like she's just talking to fill the silence, frantically trying to cover up the horrible awkwardness between them. And sure, Killian had wanted to be close to her, but trapped in a snowstorm with _no one_ but each other? Hardly ideal.

“I mean, what does she hope to achieve locking herself away up there?” she continues. “It's just... I can't make sense of it. She _has_ to listen to Regina. She has to know she can't just... keep freezing everything uncontrollably. God, why wouldn't she let us _help?_ ”

He knows she's just venting – hell, if anyone identifies with locking themselves away, it should be the two of them, after however long they spent building walls that might not have been quite as literal as Elsa's, but still served the same purpose.

“It's not just the powers,” he says. “She's grieving. She's just remembered that her sister is dead. She blames _herself_ for that death, and it's... it's hitting her all at once. I dare say she showed more presence of mind than I ever could have, managing to get herself _out_ of town before she really lost control.”

He pauses, unsure if Emma is even listening – but she doesn't reply. He can hear her breathing, her teeth chattering, and continues more hesitantly.

“...you don't get over it. It's not like losing a parent, or a friend, or even a lover. Losing a sibling you're close to is like... like losing a part of your life you can never get back. There's no second chances.”

He takes a shaking breath, and feels the terrible deep ache in his stomach he always gets when he talks about Liam, even after this long.

He's spoken about it before, in bits and pieces, but not like this – never like this. She still doesn't know the full story, and he's not about to tell it now. Doesn't want to feel like he's... emotionally manipulating her to feel sympathy for him, or anything like that.

But he can feel Elsa's pain more than he likes to admit, and he's said too much already to stop now.

“I was a mess after I lost Liam. Elsa's might be a lot more... visible than mine was, but she hasn't lost _herself_. She's scared and she's devastated but she doesn't want to _harm_ anyone. And it'll be a process, bringing her out of this, but... right now, I think what she needs is actually to get it out. Maybe not by freezing everything,” with a scoffing laugh, “But... I don't know. You do what you have to to numb the pain. And there is a _lot_ of pain.”

“Killian,” Emma begins, softly.

He shakes his head, though she likely can't see it in the dark.

“Sorry. It's just. It's the one wound that you can't really heal. Especially if they go suddenly. _Especially_ if you think it's your fault.”

He can see her trying and failing to think of something to say. Once it would have been easy; they would have held each other. Embraced. Found comfort through touch and silence.

But now the wind whistles through the cracks in the boarding, and he sees the dark outline of her hand reach out towards him and then fall back to her side as though thinking better of it.  
  


**THEN**

 

Jefferson is sitting in the Rabbit Hole when they get there, and when he and Killian make eye contact across the room, the Hatter's gaze darts across to Emma, and Killian can tell the moment he sees everything, that awful tension that somehow Snow and David and Henry have been oblivious to the last few days. Though to be quite honest, he's not surprised, he and Emma have built themselves on their ability to not let people know how they're feeling, and Jefferson is a master of things that fall apart.

Something about it enrages him; because things were fine before – _before_ – before he starting talking about pasts and unfinished business and bloody _cracks_ –

But this is on him, he knows. He ruined this like he always does and there's no one to blame but himself. And in the mean time, Emma has wandered off to talk to a group of dock workers hanging out in the corner, and he wanders over to Jefferson.

“Captain Hook,” the man greets. The moniker usually grates nowadays but now – now it feels like putting on an old coat he wanted to throw away, only to find that it still fits. It scares him more than he wants to admit.

“Blackbeard's dead,” he says, curtly, and Jefferson nods.

“So I heard. Man has enemies, it could have been any one of them. Things are changing around here, Hook. It's not like before.” He looks down at his hands, fiddling with the hem of his scarf, twisting it around and between his fingers. “Jumping from here to the Enchanted Forest and back – no one knows who's in charge anymore, whose rules we're following.”

“Bloody politics,” Killian mutters, and Jefferson glances up at him.

“It's a good time for a pirate to try and capitalise on things.”

“Yeah, well, someone else obviously didn't approve of Blackbeard trying to do that.”

There's silence for a moment.

“I'm sorry, you know,” Jefferson says, his eyes moving across the room to Emma. Her back is turned to them as she questions the group of men. They look rather intimidated and any other time Killian would have been amused – proud – but right now he can hardly even look at her.

“I really wanted it to work out,” Jefferson continues, and before Killian even knows what he's doing, he's seized the other man by the front of his shirt. His fingers curl into the fabric in a way he intended to be threatening, but it suddenly feels more like he's grasping for help.

“Stop it,” he hisses. “Just- _stop_.”

“This isn't on me, Hook,” Jefferson replies, voice laden with a dull sort of upset. “I didn't _jinx_ your relationship by questioning its longevity.”

“You don't know a damn thing.”

“I know what it's like to be _damaged_.” He grabs Killian's wrist, eyes blazing. “I know what it's like to have your past haunt you every day of your life. If it hadn't been Blackbeard it would have been something else. We're our own casualties... Killian.”

Killian sits back in his seat and manages to knock over a glass on the way. His hand is shaking as he tries to set it back upright. His heart is beating too fast.

Jefferson lets out a soft snort. He's looking down at his hands again.

“We're meant to be _fairytales_ ,” he says, bitterly. “Once the bad guy is defeated it's meant to be happily ever after. Isn't that how it goes? As soon as the curse was broken things should have been _fine_. Instead...” he throws his hands up.

“Everything is going to be fine,” Killian replies, but it comes out like a lie he's repeated so many times it doesn't make sense anymore, and Jefferson just gives him a withering look. He straightens his back. “I mean it. I'm not... I won't give up on us.”

“The point isn't whether _you'll_ give up on things,” Jefferson scoffs, “It's whether things can be fixed at all.”

Killian sits back, feeling like he's just been punched in the stomach, because _no_ , this isn't how it's meant to go – they're in the _book_ , things are supposed to turn out well. Except Jefferson has brought to light all of his worst fears, and Regina's words abruptly swim back into his mind – _villains don't get happy endings_.

She didn't.

And now, it seems, he won't either.

Jefferson stands up with a sigh, and Killian suddenly feels tired, so tired that he can't even raise his head to watch the other man leave. He feels Jefferson take a few steps, then stop, and come back to stand beside him.

“If it helps,” Jefferson says, “I still keep an eye on the town through my telescope. There's a bunch of guys who hang out around the docks at night. They were smugglers back in our world. I think they've been trading magical items here. I heard the pirate was trying to break in on it, so I'm guessing they're responsible for what happened to him.”

Killian nods – he knows of the group – but even the knowledge that he can prove he had nothing to do with Blackbeard's death doesn't abate the doubt sitting heavy in his stomach.

He sits alone for some time until Emma comes back over, and sits across from him with a sigh.

“Nothing,” she says.

“I have something,” Killian replies.

“What?”

He bites his lip. “We should talk first,” he says. His voice comes out hoarse and small and something flickers in Emma's eyes. She leans back in her chair, not quite looking at him.

“I... Killian, I want to trust you. But you've... you can't deny you've been hiding stuff from me lately and I just, I don't know why. _Why_?”

“They're not things that... matter,” he starts, but Emma cuts in.

“They _do_ , how can you say that? They matter because you're obviously upset about them, they matter because you've been _lying_ to me about them-”

“I didn't-”

“You _did_. Every time you say you're fine, or that nothing's wrong, you're just... this isn't how we used to be Killian. What happened?”

When he doesn't answer right away, she lets out another huff of breath. Rubs her temples as though this whole thing is giving her a headache.

“Why'd Smee think you did it?”

“There's bad blood between Blackbeard and I.”

“But why would he think that-”

“I killed Blackbeard back in the forest,” he says. Now that this is out in the open, the rest emerges easy and loose as crumbling sand. “Or I thought I did. He took the Roger so I fought him for it, made him walk the plank. But Ariel fished him back out, or so Smee reasons.”

Emma looks at him intently. She still doesn't understand, and Hook can feel everything they've built sitting fragile between them. As soon as she realises – as soon as he tells her – it will fall apart so easily, like a stack of cards.

“Why would she do that?”

“Because,” he says, through gritted teeth. “She – wanted me to help find her prince. Blackbeard knew where he was. But I didn't let him tell her. I betrayed her. I was too... selfish to help. I gave up his life for my _ship_.”

There's a terrible silence. He can't look at her.

“Why would you... how long... Killian, why wouldn't you just _tell_ me that?”

“Because it would _ruin everything._ You think – you _thought_ that I was a hero, and. I couldn't destroy things, not now, not when this means so much to you. Everything was going _fine_. I didn't want...”

To be the one that disappointed her.

To be the one that ruined everything.

Well, he thinks, bitterly, as she stares at him with an expression that for once he can't read and – _closed book –_ joke's on him, he ruined it all anyway.

“I was talking to Ruby,” she says then, and he frowns at the change in subject. “She was telling me that people talk about us. I don't... You don't have to prove yourself to me.”

His fist slams on the table, and she jumps, but he's just so _frustrated_ , by himself more than anything.

“I have three hundred years of blood behind me, Emma,” he says, “Of _course_ I have to prove myself to you. To your whole family, to everyone on this damn town. You think I don't know that if this... if we fall apart, it won't be my fault? This whole _thing_ is on me – your trust, your family, _us-”_

“Don't do that,” she says, angry now, “Don't put me on a pedestal like that! It's not _like_ that, is that really how you've felt this _whole time_? Like this relationship is just, what, some pressure on you to be perfect? Was all of this just you trying to _prove yourself_?”

_No_ , he thinks, it's not like that, not at all – they're both projecting now, both breathing heavily, and he can see the fear in her eyes. The fear that this won't work out, that he'll leave just like all the others. And this is what he wanted to avoid this whole time, and the sick doubts are rising up again – _you're the one who's hurt her, you were never going to be good enough, you've fucked this up just like you fuck up everything else_.

He wants to gather her up in his arms and kiss her and tell her _no_ and _things will be better now_ and _it was real, I love you, I love you, I love you –_

But here is the great irony; he cannot do a thing now because it is ruined _– he_ ruined it – he cannot even smile because it would be fake.

And Emma stands, and presses her lips together.

“I need some air,” she says, and walks away.

.

She doesn't return to the station.

He tells David about Jefferson's lead, and they track down the smugglers and arrest them. That same lethargy continues to bear down on Killian until he's so tired he can barely think. Even David can't fail to notice it.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” Killian replies, and wonders when lying came so easily to him again.

David doesn't look convinced. “Go home,” he says, clapping Killian on the shoulder. Killian wonders if he would be so free with his affections if he knew what he had done. It is the sort of thinking he thought he'd gotten over when he began his relationship with Emma – the sort of thing that stopped haunting him for that brief, free, wonderful period.

“Emma's probably waiting for you.”

_Emma is probably dreading you_ , he thinks, and drags his feet all the way home.

Henry is out with Regina, and the apartment is too quiet and empty when he steps inside. There are memories here – happy memories, ones they built together, but all he can think as he walks through the silent living room is that they are too close to the water, and the salty, briny smell that wafts through the window as the tide pulls out makes him think of drowning.

Emma is indeed waiting for him. She is sitting on the bed, studying her hands the way Jefferson was, and when she looks up at him her eyes are red rimmed but her jaw is set. She looks the way she did when she was interrogating people back at the bar.

“We need to talk,” she says.

Killian nods, heavily, but it's that moment, those words, the pain in her eyes and the hard set of her shoulders that make him realise that this is it, he can't hide anymore. If he had told her before, on his own terms, instead of being backed into a corner, perhaps it would have been alright.

But the secret festered, grew more rotten every second he kept it hidden, and now – now it's too late

(too late, too late)

and all he can think, as he quietly closes the door behind him and sits on the bed opposite her, is that he was right all along, because when things fall apart – _and they have fallen apart_ – it was all along, inevitably, his fault.

  
  
**NOW**

 

Killian isn't sure how much time passes. The storm continues to rage outside. He stands up eventually, clearing a patch of the frost on the window with his sleeve and looking outside. It's completely white. He can't see a damn thing, not even the trees closest to the cabin, and when he tries the door he finds that so much snow has piled up outside that he can't even get it open.

“We're snowed in,” he announces, and hears Emma sit up a bit.

“What? Oh. Great. Brilliant.”

When he sits back down, he notices how wet the floor is. The snow they brought in with them has turned to a horrible slush. Emma's teeth are chattering loudly, and he pulls off his beanie and scoots closer, offering it to her.

“Here – yours fell on the ice, it's probably wet.”

“What? I won't... Killian, I'm not taking your stuff.”

He can't quite stop the pang of hurt, immediately kicking himself for being so familiar, but her safety comes before his feelings, so he refuses to take it back when she pushes it at him.

“I'm not going to wear it, Swan, so you might as well. It's just a _hat_ , it's not...” he trails off, but she doesn't argue further, and he hears her rustling about with it in the darkness.

It's only then, though, that he realises that they might actually be in danger in here. In the silence he has found himself unable to concentrate on any one thing all that much. He's been tired for a long time, but now he feels _sleepy_ more than anything. Almost lightheaded.

“Swan,” he says, and for some reason it sounds very far away.

“Yes?”

He promptly forgets what he was going to say, until suddenly she's very close to him, grip tight around his arm, shaking him.

“Killian? What is it? Don't fall asleep.”

He snaps back to attention, eyes blearily focusing on her face. It's very close to his, and she jerks back suddenly, rocking back on her haunches.

“We need... it's too cold, Swan,” he says. Even in here their breath mists before them, and he sees her nod. “We need fire.”

“There's no wood in here, it's empty.”

“Your magic,” he says – and suddenly she freezes. Even in the darkness he can see the way she goes stiff and tense. She jerks back away from him so that no parts of them are touching, and he sits up, face creasing in confusion, unsure what he did wrong to solicit such a reaction.

“Emma?” he asks. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” she snaps, too quickly.

Except it's not nothing, that awkward tension is back, but he doesn't know what to do or say – hasn't got enough to work with – so there he remains, half-reaching out to her, their heavy breathing the only sound in the dark, quiet cabin.


	6. no man's land

**THEN**   
_(had to be the dumbest thing that i could do)_

Granny's is crowded, but Emma sits alone in her booth. Her heart is pounding like she has just run a marathon, and despite all her efforts to _slow down_ and _breathe deeply_ , she can't quite get it to stop. _Li-ar,_ she thinks with every beat, _li-ar, li-ar, li-ar_.

Except he's not, not really – except by omission and things that neither of them ever said out loud. That's worse, somehow. That feels less like biting into an apple to find a worm inside and more like finding out that it's some sort of genetically modified imitation apple that is mostly chemicals and still tastes friggin' _great_ , it just was never real.

_I love you_ , he had said, that first night in this very spot, when most everyone had gone home and it was just the two of them under the fluorescent lights, so glad to be back in the real world, and

_I love you_ , he had said, pressing soft kisses to her hair and her forehead and her cheeks whenever she'd wake thrashing in the night, and just last week, _I love you_ , and just this morning, and this whole time – _this whole time_ – he might have loved her, but he hasn't trusted her.

Because it is. A matter of trust – the fact that there could possibly even have been something _that big_ bothering him. The fact that, apparently, she's been the fool here, thinking things were going oh-so-well when all the time they _weren't_ – the fact that she had thought this was the best relationship of her life, the first time things _weren't_ going to pot and all along-

She was just stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

“Emma?” Ruby's voice is soft by her side, but it still makes her jump. It takes her a moment to lift her head, to steel herself to meet the other woman's eyes.

“Can I get you anything?” Ruby asks, and Emma shakes her head. Ruby's mouth twists sympathetically, but she doesn't push. She just nods, and walks away, and Emma suddenly feels like the floor has dropped out from under her and she is suspended in some empty chasm because for all that she is surrounded by _people_ , she feels alone like she hasn't in months.

Mary Margaret and David are busy with Neal – and she shouldn't begrudge them that, _shouldn't_ , but they haven't been _around_ , not like they used to. And Henry – Henry loves Killian, and that was all real – _wasn't it?_ Suddenly she isn't sure of anything anymore.

But with this turn of events, she feels disoriented again, out of place in a way she had thought she put behind her. Biting her lip, she lets her gaze drift across the diner-

and fall upon Belle and Mr Gold.

They're in a corner booth, absolutely lost in each other. Emma hasn't seen much of them since Zelena's defeat – hasn't had all that much reason to, just consulting Gold a few times about what magical items might remain in their world – and as she watches Belle throw her head back, laughing, and Gold smiling in a way that he doesn't around anyone else, she feels a pang of wistfulness.

_That's_ true love, that's what it looks like. That's what she sees every day between her parents. And Gold is _literally_ the Dark One, so whatever shit Killian has in his past, he probably has tenfold.

Apparently, it doesn't bother him. That might say more about the fact that his conscience probably shrivelled up and died hundreds of years ago than it does about some sort of relationship secret he and Belle have managed to work out between them, but either way –

Either way –

Either way, they look _happy_ . And Emma _knows_ there are things that Gold doesn't tell his wife, and she knows there must be things he is too ashamed to bring up, that he fears Belle's disappointment the same way Killian must fear hers, but they're still happy.

And right now – right now, Emma isn't happy, and she's pretty damn sure Killian isn't either.

And somehow, that's what does it – that's what cements things for her.

Her whole life, _happily ever after_ has been nothing but a pipe dream. And she _was_ happy, before – with Mary Margaret and David and Henry and Storybrooke. And with Killian, before, but now, now things just aren't working out and they're only getting worse and it's actively working _against_ her here.

They have to talk about it.

They have to talk about it and it has to be a once-and-for-all thing. If they can't fix it they have to end it, because she _knows_ by now that leaving wounds to fester only makes them worse and worse and she has to cut a clean break with this. She carried Neal around for so long because they didn't end things properly; Graham was torn away before she even had a _chance_ to work things out.

They have to talk about it, and they have to work things out, or they have to end it.

With this decision in mind, she feels much better, rising from the booth and striding out into the cold air with a purpose.

(And if that same childlike fear that held her back from Mary Margaret, from Henry, is tickling at her gut, she ignores it – )

(And if there's a part of her that almost _wants_ to end it just because getting rid of it is easier than the pain of working it out, she ignores it – )

(And if she feels more like that wild, untamed teen than ever, roaming the streets and living for herself and _look out for yourself and you'll never get hurt_ – )

(She ignores it.)

 

**NOW**

 

“Emma?” Killian prompts, softly.

She's breathing heavily, sucking in air in some attempt to alleviate the sudden tight, painful feeling in her chest.

_Magic_. She hasn't used it in a long time – hasn't had to, and there's only so many times you can lift a cup of cocoa or float the TV remote over to yourself before it gets old. Fun as it was, she had just preferred doing things the mundane way.

But now – now she's not sure she could lift that television remote if she tried, because she can't _feel it_ , her magic. Not the way she used to, in Neverland or on that collapsing bridge or when desperately willing the wand to work, to let her go _home_. That simmering energy just beneath the surface of her skin, like a mild itch but not quite unpleasant. She's reached for it, vaguely, now and then since the break up, but when she couldn't feel it right away she drew back, afraid of what she might find – or not find.

Her magic comes from love and hope and _belonging_. And right now she's just not feeling that.

“Just – give me a minute,” she says.

She can't see him in the dark, but can't bring herself to look at him either way. Her hands are shaking. When she feels him come up over her shoulder, she jumps. His arms wrap around her to grasp her hand in his, holding it still.

“Emma,” he says, softly, and he's too close, too close, too _close_.

“It's fine,” he continues. “Calm down. We might be fine, you don't need to-”

For some reason, it annoys her – she knows that he can tell she's shaken and hesitant and unsure of herself, that he's trying not to pressure her – but he's always been so _behind_ her before, always believing in her, and now, for some reason, with the pressures of the day and their failure to help Elsa bearing down on her... it feels like he's giving up on her.

She shoves him back, a little more roughly than she intended to, and he stumbles back a pace.

“You were practically falling asleep earlier,” she snaps, spinning around. “I'm pretty sure that's sign number one of hypothermia or whatever.”

There's not enough light in the cabin, a combination of lack of artificial light and the storm clouds bearing down outside. She can just see the side of his face, the glint of his blue eyes. He's staring at her, concerned, earnest, _confused_.

“I'm fine, lass,” he says. In the dim light she sees a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Just tired. Haven't been sleeping well lately.”

She bites her lip, because neither has she. It's been a month but she stills wakes up in the night sometimes, disoriented and confused, expecting a warm body on the other side of the bed or a sleep-heavy arm slung over her shoulders. She _misses_ him – misses the stupid conversations they'd have into the early hours of the morning, misses his warm embrace and soft kisses, the reassurance that despite her bad dreams or the nagging insecurities that woke her up in the night, he was always _there_ , a solid presence in her arms.

It's funny how used you get to sharing a bed with someone, even in such a short time. How quickly it feels abnormal once they're gone.

Shaking herself, she snaps back to attention.

“No,” she says, and takes a deep breath. Because now that she's aware of it, she's pretty sure they actually _are_ dangerously cold. Especially with their clothes damp from the amount of times they'd fallen on the ice. “We need a fire. Besides, the light might lead David to us if he comes looking.”

“It's snowing pretty heavily out there,” Killian points out, but stands back.

She always finds it a bit awkward doing this with an audience. She feels a bit silly as she holds her hands out, squeezing her eyes shut in concentration.

_Come on, come on, you've done this a hundred times before. Fire is easy. First thing Regina tried to teach you._

She fancies she feels a slight tingling in her fingertips, but when she opens her eyes nothing has happened. A hot flush of embarrassment burns through her. Killian is staring, and she knows he's confused. It had come so easily to her before.

“I can't do it with you staring at me like that,” she snaps, angry and self-conscious. She's being harsher than she needs to, she knows, but everything about this situation just _sucks_. Being trapped here, with _him_ , half frozen and-

Failing, failing, _failing at everything_.

“Alright,” Killian says, glancing away.

She closes her eyes, tries again. Nothing. Feels hot tears burn behind her eyes as she flexes her fingers desperately, practically burning a hole through the floor with the force of her gaze.

_Work_ , she wills it, _work, work, work_.

It doesn't work.

Killian might not be looking, but she can feel him waiting expectantly, and her anxiety levels are rising by the second. She thrusts her hand out again, and again, but nothing happens.

“Emma?” he pipes up, finally. “Is something... wrong, why isn't it-”

“ _Shut up_ ,” she barks out, before she can stop herself. “Seriously, just shut up, okay – I'm trying to _concentrate here_ , I can't... you're really not _helping_.”

He opens his mouth like he's about to snap back, but she _sees_ him check himself, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he grits his teeth, and somehow that makes her angrier than ever. The way he's holding himself back, treating her like some fragile breakable object and _they should have fought, things would have gone better if they'd just fought_.

“What?” she mocks. “The great Captain Hook won't defend himself?”

“Swan,” he says, voice low and rough, letting irritation seep into his tone for the first time.

She's being irrational, she knows. She's stressed and tired and half of her wants him to be patient with her, the other half wants him to shout, to _push_ , anything to break this horrible stalemate between them. It's all coming to a head and she just – can't, anymore.

“It's not working, is that what you want to hear? I can't fucking make it work.”

And she's close to tears now, because she can't stop thinking _some saviour, some God damn saviour I am_ , and every other time she _still_ hasn't been strong enough, not to save anyone else – she could kiss Henry and break a curse, but she barely even knew what she was doing. Snow took down Cora and Rumple took down Pan, Regina dealt with Zelena because Emma _couldn't_ , and now, now she and Killian are going to freeze to death because she can't make her magic cooperate.

“Emma.” His hands are held up, placatingly, but he makes no move to reach out and actually touch her. She's torn between feeling grateful and hurt. “Just calm down, lass, it's-”

“It's what? It's going to be _okay_? Keep telling yourself that,” she snaps, and the words are cruel but the anger white-hot in her gut feels better than emptiness, or worthlessness, or _despair_ , “Because _that's_ what ruined things last time, and it's not a God damn bit of help _now_.”

Even in the dark, she sees him flinch, and as the rage bursts through her, there's a sudden flicker of light in the corner of her eye. She looks down at the floor, and there's a tongue of flame hovering a few centimetres off the ground. As she watches, it grows into a small but steady blaze.

Shame and guilt wash over her quickly, because this – this is not how she wanted to do things, letting rage and anger fuel her magic. That's a quick path to darker things, as she's seen time and again in the other magic users she's encountered. Suddenly she feels embarrassed, afraid to meet Killian's eyes, to see what he's thinking. She settles for not looking at him at all, squatting down beside the blaze and reaching out to warm her hands. The tips of her fingers tingle as sensation returns to them. The heat is welcome, whichever way she went about creating it, and after a moment Killian comes and sits down by the fire as well. He's careful not to get too close, a pointed distance between them, and another pang wracks her.

She wants to be _anywhere_ but here, alone, with him, forced to see just howdistant they've become. But somehow the thought of her apartment, her empty room, isn't welcoming. Even David, Mary Margaret, Neal, _Henry_ – right now none of them can fill the sudden gaping absence she feels.

_Once this would have been fine_ , she thinks, _if we were still together, this would be an adventure. Like when we fell through the portal_. Her magic would have worked first try, and he'd have been proud – they'd have found plenty to talk about as they waited out the storm. It would have been cosy, fun even – he'd have found the perfect words to take Elsa and their failure off her mind. She'd have felt confident that they'd get things sorted out.

But now, as she glances up at him to find him looking away, dark wells under his eyes and his jaw still tense and set, the crackling of the fire the only sound between them –

Now she could just as well be sitting in this cabin alone, or out in the cold, and she thinks of Elsa locked away in her prison of ice and might as well be there herself.

  
  
**THEN**   
  
  


Looking back on it, Emma makes up her mind before Killian even walks through the door of their room.

Because when you get something stuck in your head, that's it, that will be your number one decision, it's on outside forces to provide a burden of proof.

Because right now, waiting in the bedroom for him to return home feels a hell of a lot like the days and weeks and months she'd spend in each foster home, just waiting for the moment she'd be thrown out again

( _she's not happy_ )

and the thought of working this out over however long it takes – the thought of any more time spent watching him smile and smile but only when she's looking at him, of hushed secrets and wondering every second if this is all just a trial to him, it's _exhausting_

_(she's not happy)_

and cutting things off here, ending them _now_ – it's a hard decision, but at least it's a _decision_ , a certainty. And she needs certainty, stability, needs to know where she stands and not have to _doubt._ And the more she thinks about it (and therein lies the problem, the amount of thinking about it) the more it seems like _this could be best? Maybe? I feel like it might be best?_

And by the time he walks through the door with his head down and his eyes tired, she's half-convinced herself already.

_Burden of proof. Make me change my mind, make me believe this is worth the pain_.

“We need to talk,” she says, and when she drags her eyes up to his she starts the way she always does when she sees him – because she does love him, she _does_ , but right now he looks like the weight of the world is on his shoulders and somehow that just pushes her further towards the edge, because this relationship _shouldn't_ be a weight, and if it is –

(he's _not happy_ )

He nods, quietly closing the door behind him. He sits on the bed opposite her, and for a moment there is silence, neither of them looking at the other. Finally he drags his eyes up to meet hers. For once, she can't tell what he is thinking. Doesn't know if she can even trust the way she sees him anymore.

“I'm sorry,” he says, first off.

The apology doesn't appease her; if anything it makes her stomach sink, because does he even know? Does he even understand exactly _why_ she's so upset?

“Killian,” she starts, trying to form her words carefully. “I'm not... I'm not angry that you didn't tell me about Ariel. I'm upset that you didn't _think_ you could tell me. Did you really think that I'd, what, judge you? That it would really ruin everything that badly?”

He looks down, and she sees it – the flash of doubt that crosses his face, the self-hatred that she's grown accustomed to seeing in bits and pieces whenever someone brings up his past, or spits _pirate_ , even teasingly. It's something she thought they'd been working through – _both_ of their self-loathing tendencies – something she'd almost thought they were _over_.

She'd been a fool, it seems. Because that it could get to the point that he's start worrying about being in her company, that he'd fear her finding out – that she couldn't even _see_ that he'd started feeling this way –

It's just not at all what she'd wanted or hoped for them. It's not the way things should be, if this really is true love.

She cares, though, enough that she wants to reach out and comfort him and just forget about all of this –

But she _can't_ , that's not what this is about. All or nothing.

“I don't want us to be like this,” she whispers, and he looks up. He's the one who reaches out, now, folds his hand over hers, squeezes her fingers gently.

“It's not. Emma, we're not... we can fix this, we-”

“Killian, please don't,” she says. She hesitates, but then pulls her hand out of his grasp because _burden of proof_ and _she can't, she has to think about this objectively_. _They_ have to think about this objectively, have to step back and look at where they are and how they got here and if it's... if it's healthy to continue on like this.

“It's not okay,” she says. “It's not. I don't like that I have to worry now that you aren't being honest with me. Not even about Ariel, but about... about whether you're happy or not. I don't like that you – not just you, _both of us_ – we've been trying too hard to make everything alright. But it's not.”

It scares her that she couldn't pick it up, because what does that make her, that she was unable to even tell that the person she's closest to was upset? And the seeds of doubt have been planted now, because he's _still doing it_ , she can see – covering up the hurt her words have caused. Trying so, so hard to pretend like he thinks everything can still turn out happily ever after. But has he even believed that all along? Or have they both just been lying to themselves?

“I've just... been trying to make this work,” he says then, quietly, almost gingerly.

“Maybe it's not working,” she replies. She's venturing out, testing the waters, but at this she practically feels the temperature in the room drop.

“What?” Killian asks, slowly.

The words come out almost too easily, like some horrible recitation.

“Are you happy, Killian?”

“Yes,” he says – insists, almost, but she can't tell, she can't _tell_ , her lie detector has never worked on those she cares about.

“Are you... how can I know that you're not just saying that because you don't want to upset me? Because you think that's what you need to say?” She's almost pleading now, desperate for him to see what she means, but at the same time –

And the same time she can't possibly think of what he _can_ say to make this better.

(At the same time, she's already made up her mind.)

“Emma,” he says, earnest, “Nothing makes me happier than you, that's why I... that's..”

“But that's not a _good_ thing, Killian, it's not good if – if loving me is _damaging_ you, if you're not happy then I-” she breaks off there, unable to go on, because all of her old fears are rising up again, things that should have been buried with Neal. _Her fault_ and _unlovable_ and maybe the reason she constantly falls through the cracks, slipping from place to place, is because there's something untouchable about her, something that drives people away – and even if he doesn't _want_ to leave, perhaps he _should_.

“That is _not true_ ,” he says, and grasps her hand again. “Emma? Look at me, that's not true, that-”

“Then how do you explain it?” she bursts out, standing up abruptly and wrenching her hand away. She's yelling now, unable to stop, “Killian, just _look at us_ for a moment, we're not – this isn't – it was all going _fine_ , but now it isn't. Maybe it was inevitable, maybe we're not... this might not be the best thing for us. Don't you see that?”

“Emma, you're upset.”

He's so calm as he says it, but she can see it in his eyes – the fear, the unwillingness to even consider that what she's saying might be true, and it only cements in her mind that this is wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

“Of _course_ I'm upset. I think... I think that I'm not happy, and you're not happy, and pretending otherwise is just making things worse.”

“Emma, please-”

“Just stop. Killian, just _stop_ , honestly, you do it to yourself.”

She wants him to snap back. Wants him to stop and shout and show that he can expose himself, show that he's as scared as she is, stop with that stupid blind optimism. Stop treating her like something that he's terrified of breaking – just stop being scared of ruining things for one moment so they can actually figure out how _not_ to ruin them.

But he doesn't shout, or glare. He looks like he _wants to_ – his fist is clenched, his shoulders tense – but after a moment he looks up. His eyes are stormy but he doesn't seem angry, not at her, at least.

“Is this what you want, Emma?” he asks, quietly. “To end things? Are they... are they so bad _right now_ that you want to just... stop?”

“I don't know,” she whispers, except she _does know_

(she's already made up her mind)

and he can tell, because he looks down. For a brief moment he hangs his head, trembles, lets out a long, slow breath – and then he looks up and gives a brisk nod.

“Okay,” he says, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I... okay.”

He stands, slowly, and she moves out of the way of the door. They don't quite look at each other, and part of her is waiting for him to stop, to turn around, to tell her _no_ and _this isn't what's best for you,_ because he's always known her almost better than she knows herself, to insist again that _we can fix this_.

But everything that would _normally_ fix things has been corrupted already – everything feels like they're trying too hard – and when he pauses halfway out the door it's because she's the one who's reached out, put a hand on his shoulder.

“Killian, I... I don't want to lose you, not... we should stay friends. I still...” she stops, unsure.

“Care about you,” she finishes, lamely, and he nods. Forces another smile before walking out.

She sits down on the bed, heavily. The worst part is, she feels... relieved, almost. Like all the adrenaline has drained away and now that the deed is done, she doesn't have to worry about it anymore.

But is that relief, or exhaustion, or _oh God_ , she realises suddenly, _what am I going to tell Henry? He doesn't know, he... he won't understand_.

But she's too tired to think about that right now, too tired to cry, or dwell on it. And that is how things end between them, not with a bang but a whimper, and as she lies back on the bed, closes her eyes, listens to the dull ticking of the clock on the mantel marking every second he walks farther away from her –

She may feel relieved, or exhausted, or apathetic –

But she still doesn't feel happy.

 

  
**NOW**

 

Killian is angry.

She realises it slowly. He's trying to hide it, but all the signs are there – the twitching of a muscle in his jaw, the furrow between his brows. The way his hook carves deep, aimless grooves and wells into the dirt packed between the floorboards.

She herself has calmed down slightly. The warmth helps, although it's still chilly in here, but her fears of frostbite have been somewhat abated. She feels bad for snapping now – rationally knows that she was stressed, that the tension between them has been building to a climax anyway, that he didn't take it personally – did he?

In the flickering glow of the firelight, the dark shadows under his eyes are more pronounced than ever. She probably looks even worse. She can see, now, the way his hair is sticking up from where he pulled his beanie off before, and on impulse reaches out across the fire to smooth it down – her gesture of reconciliation.

He jumps a mile when she touches him, flinches back away from the reach of her hand. She snatches it back, trying to quell the pang of hurt that flashes through her.

“Bloody hell, Swan,” he snaps.

“Sorry,” she replies, automatically, then adds, “I- I just, your hair. It was sticking up.”

He cards his fingers through it quickly, but only succeeds in making things worse. He's _definitely_ angry though, she can tell, and hunches back against the wall, drawing her knees up to her chest.

“Wow, okay,” she says, unable to quite help herself. “I was just trying to help.”

“Damn it, just _stop_ , okay?” he snaps.

She blinks, confused. Unsure what he means. Unsettled by how he's not hiding it anymore – his irritation, his anger – and it's what she wanted, sure, but he's practically being outright _hostile_ , which is... unlike him.

“Jesus, what's with you?” she asks.

His jaw clenches even harder. She half expects to hear teeth crack. Instead, he rises to his feet, and paces across the cabin to stand in the farthest corner of the room, half-hidden by the shadows, bracing himself against the wall. She stares at him for a moment, but he makes no move to explain.

“Killian?” she calls out. “Killian, come back to the fire, you'll freeze.”

She hears him let out a ragged breath.

“Look, I'm sorry I touched your hair, alright? I don't understand why-”

“You don't _understand_ ,” he says, and spins around, pacing back towards her. She scrambles to her feet, facing him.

It's not anger, she realises abruptly, it's... it's the look on his face when she asked him about Liam, that first time in Neverland, it's the look on his face in the hospital when she announced she was going after Zelena.

“ _I_ don't understand, Emma,” he bursts out, “I don't understand if you want me near you or not, if you want me to touch you or not, if you want my support and encouragement or... or for me to stay as far away from you as possible!”

“That's not what I want,” she snapped. “I never... I never _said_ that-”

“Well, you've sure been sending me some mixed signals, love.” He barks out a laugh, high, almost hysterical. “All I want to do is make _you_ happy. I've been trying. _So_ hard. But you keep either pushing me away, or trying to get things back to normal, and I don't... they _can't_ be normal. I can't go back to how we were because I-”

He breaks off, sudden horror crossing his face, and it takes her a moment to register what he just said, to realise.

“Killian?” she prompts, voice quiet, almost afraid.

He looks away, shoulders shaking, fist clenched, but it's too late now, the unspoken words are already hanging in the air between them and she _needs to know, needs to hear it –_

He draws a shuddering breath, and whispers, “Because I still love you.”

 


	7. storm

**THEN _  
_**_(nothing wrong when a song ends in a minor key)_

It starts to rain heavily as Killian makes his way across town to Granny's diner, but he barely notices. He is struggling to comprehend much of anything at the moment, because it's over, and he still can't quite get his head around that. It's over, it's over – Emma Swan is no longer his to love. He isn't sure how he feels – not sad, not really, it hasn't hit home enough for him to feel sad. Not angry, either, that will come later. But yet, not numb.

The problem is that she didn't say it out loud, there was no _that's it, this is the end of us_. He read it in her face rather than her words. The look in her eyes that was more tired than anything. And, when he understood, when he took the hint and walked out – the _relief_.

(And he feels terrible for it, but there is relief somewhere deep inside him too. Relief that the exhausting burden of keeping up a smile, a facade, has been alleviated. He will feel guilty later, he knows, but for now – for now, at least they're not pretending any more).

By the time he reaches Granny's, he's soaked. Ruby takes one look at him and seems to instantly understand; she looks stricken but knows enough to give him space – and the keys to his old room.

And by the time he is sitting on the bed in the dark and the quiet, that's when it slowly dawns on him. This isn't something they can shake off. No apologising and making up within the hour. No embraces, soft kisses, no more finding each other's companionship enough to erase whatever argument or disagreement they just had.

No more of _anything_.

It doesn't feel real, and he spends most of the night staring up at the dark ceiling just trying to get his head around it.

.

In the morning, it still doesn't feel real, but there are no messages from Emma on his phone. He looks at it for a while and wonders if he should call, if he should try to make up with her –

Except he can't do that anymore.

For the first time in a long time, he can't even _try_ to reach out to her, because they were together and now they are not and he blew it, no more chances.

He fought for her for so long but now – now, ending things was the best way he could support her. She _wanted_ this, he could see it from the moment he walked into the room – the right thing to do for Emma Swan was to leave her the way others had left her. It tears him apart but reaching out to her would do more harm than help at the moment.

.

He normally goes to the docks at times like this, seeking familiarity, but doesn't want to seem like he's lurking around outside the apartment.

Instead he wanders out into the forest. Winter has hit in force by now, and it's snowing gently, a brisk chill in the air that makes his body feel as numb as his mind as he wanders aimlessly.

_Neal died here_ , the morbid thought strikes him as he ventures along the winding trails. He still misses the man with a deep intensity that won't fade away; he holds onto things, he knows, it's one of the things that leaves him broken for years and years

_(cracks_ )

It took three hundred years to even begin to let go of Milah, and Liam – Liam is still there, every time he sets out on the ocean, every time David smiles at him or claps him on the shoulder, every quiet moment when he stops and thinks about where he has been and where he is now and what it means to have honour.

He holds onto things and that's partly why it all broke down. Jefferson was right, it seems, deep buried insecurities and an inability to trust himself that leaked over to an inability to trust Emma – to trust in her unconditional love, her judgement – and now nothing will be the same again.

.

Killian is sitting in Granny's when David and Snow come to find him.

He can't help but tense when they sit down opposite him. David he could deal with, maybe, but despite all that's happened he and Snow still haven't managed to find the time to sit down and get to know each other. Even when he and Emma weren't, well, like this, he'd still never quite felt as though she approved of him.

When he finally manages to look up at them, though, they don't look angry. Just confused.

“Hi,” David says, a touch awkwardly. “Uh... Emma told us what happened.”

He just nods, wondering how exactly she managed to explain it to them, because so much of it was things that couldn't be said and that was the problem, really, wasn't it.

“I guess I just don't understand what happened,” David continues. “She said you just... weren't working out and it was a mutual agreement to split up because you'd both be happier that way. But that isn't... I mean, you guys were  _great_ together.” He frowns.

“Aye,” Killian replies, “We were, but...” But not great enough. Not enough to reach that level of True Love that David and Snow have achieved, that even Belle and the Crocodile managed, that level where you can share everything without fear of judgement, where things never go horribly wrong and you manage to overcome every hurdle. Where you're totally comfortable with each other and the past, the past doesn't matter at all.

“But like she said,” he says, “Things just...” he trails off, shaking his head. “Hard to explain,” he says, finally, and Snow's lips press together.

He's surprised when she's the one who reaches out and presses his arm.

“You're still very welcome in our family,” she says, and Killian is a bit too stunned to reply. He can't quite bring himself to smile back at her before she rises and leaves the booth.

David lets out a heavy sigh.

“Normally I would be out for blood against anyone who hurt my daughter,” he says. “But this seems different.”

Killian is silent.

“You're not going anywhere, right?” David continues, sounding a little worried now. “I mean, Emma said you were still friends but-”

“It's not just Emma who was keeping me here,” Killian tells him – and when David visibly relaxes,  _that_ manages to bring half a smile to his lips.

“Good,” David says, nodding. “Good.”

He looks like he's itching to push harder, to try and  _understand_ , but it's only been a day and now is not the time.

“I'll see you at work tomorrow, then,” David half-asks.

Killian nods. “Things don't have to change,” he says, remembering what Emma told him –  _we should stay friends_ – except even the thought of that just seems  _wrong_ because even before, even when she left him up on the beanstalk or sat by him in the hospital, even when he came back for her the first time – they were never just friends, there was always that hope, that tension, that things could be more.

.

And, of course, things  _have_ changed.

“Good morning,” Emma says when he gets to the sheriff's station the next day. He takes one look at her face and knows she has barely slept since they broke up.

“Hi,” he replies, and it takes about twenty minutes of doing paperwork in an awkward silence, both of them glancing up at the other when they think they're not looking, before they realise that the easiness they had before has completely shattered.

“Do you guys want a moment alone to talk?” David asks at the end of a very long, very uncomfortable day.

“No,” Emma replies, without looking at him, and Killian can tell she deliberately tries not to end up alone in a room with him after that.

.

Things have changed because he still goes by their apartment now and then, always at David's invitation, and sometimes they all go out for drinks after work, but he and Emma never  _talk_ , not really – the topic of conversation is always Elsa, or baby Neal, or things happening around the town, and every time he looks at her it's like a knife stabbing him in the gut because he just  _misses her_ . So damn much.

.

Things have changed because as the days stretch into weeks he starts being unable to bring himself to even be around her, it hurts so much. He starts hanging out with Smee more, taunting himself with old bad habits, seeing how long he can go on resisting them before he inevitably falls back into pirate mode, telling himself  _no_ and  _you're better than this_ and  _don't let Emma down again, even now_ , knowing that eventually he'll probably give in.

Tinker Bell quickly latches onto him, as she is staying at Granny's as well. She keeps her silence for a while but he can tell that, like everyone else in town, she's disappointed.

“Killian,” she says, very seriously one night, having just seen the two of them say possibly the most awkward goodbyes in the history of the universe after leaving the sheriff station at the same time. “You have _got_ to get back together with her.”

He shoots her a look that's half incredulous and half very unimpressed, and she rolls her eyes.

“You're _true love_ ,” she says.

People have been throwing that around a lot in the aftermath and it never fails to make him feel a bit sick.

“No,” he says, flatly. “That's not what she wants.”

“What she wants isn't always what's best for her,” Tink replies. “Or you.”

“Ay, well, being together wasn't so great for us either.”

“Wasn't it?”

“ _No_ , Tink,” he growls, “No it bloody well _wasn't_. She wasn't _happy_.”

“Hey,” she insists, skipping in front of him and stopping him with a finger jabbed square in the middle of his chest. “She  _was_ happy. Maybe not at the end, when things started going wrong, but... she was happy. You both were. Look, every relationship has its ups and downs, you just need to get through them. Happily ever afters don't come straight away.”

He stares up at the sky and lets out a long stream of breath, misting white in the cold night air.

“Yeah, well. We've already been through so much. This was _meant_ to be the end, the happily ever after, and it didn't _work_ and this... she doesn't want...” he trails off before shooting her an almost pleading look. “Just... it's over, okay? There's nothing we can do about it.”

Except he hopes, he  _hopes_ –

But he can't do that. Can't give himself hope only to take it away again, because enough has been ripped away from him before that he doesn't think he can handle it happening once more. And it was bad enough breaking up the once without going through it all over again.

Tink stares at him for a long moment. Then she sighs, and gives a small nod, and she doesn't bring it up again.

.

“I know I said I didn't jinx anything,” Jefferson informs him, the first time they see each other after word gets out about what happened. “But man, now I feel kind of responsible.”

Killian privately thinks that he very well should have kept his pessimism to himself, since, really, everything only started going downhill  _after_ he began spreading his doom and gloom around. But for now they're both in the same boat when he comes to their outlook on life (read: crap) and, as it turns out, Jefferson is a far better drinking partner than Smee. He knows when to stop himself and when to stop Killian, so in the interests of not falling back into old ways, he starts spending more time with the guy.

It's this that leads him to following Jefferson to Storybrooke's school one day, in order to pick up his daughter. The school has been open for a few months now. Life can't stop just because of curses and witches and flying monkeys, after all.

When they get to the gate, however, it's not just Grace standing there waiting, it's Henry too. They've spoken a few times since the break up, but never for very long. Killian tries not to hang around the Charmings too much, except for David, it always still feels a bit awkward.

“Hey,” Henry says. His eyes light up when he sees Killian. “Walk me home?”

“I don't know, lad,” he replies, a little dubiously. “I don't think your mum would like that much.”

“Why?” Henry challenges. “You're still friends, aren't you?”

Killian doesn't quite have a response to that, and while he's floundering Henry grabs his arm and pulls him down the road a little, effectively forcing him to follow him along. Jefferson staring intensely at him from the school gates really isn't helping, and after a second Killian sighs and keeps pace with the boy.

They walk for a little while, making idle chatter about Henry's school work, the baby, town events. As they approach the bay, however, Henry falls silent for a few moments.

“Everything alright?” Killian asks finally, and Henry nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just... I really... Mum really liked you, you know? You were her true love.”

He can't quite help the huff of irritation he lets out at that.

“Lots of people saying that lately, lad, and it's not exactly helping.”

“I know she says you guys had like a mutual break up but... you didn't want to, did you?”

Henry stares at him intensely, and Killian is struck into silence. Part of him wants to just go along with what they've put up the last few months –  _things just didn't work out, we both thought it'd be best not to be together anymore_ – but somehow he can't lie, not to Henry.

“No,” he says. “I guess I didn't.”

Henry is silent for a long moment.

“My mum,” he says finally. “I know it's been a long journey and sort of... two steps forward, one step back, for a really long time with her. And it's easy to think that by now she should just be over all of her trust issues and everything, but... you can't just fully get over things, you know?”

_I know_ , Killian thinks grimly,  _I know that very well_ .

“But that's not a bad thing,” Henry goes on. “I mean, the point is to just help each other get _through_ them, not _over_ them. Right? And I get why things might have messed up with... with you being unsure, or doubting if she'd accept you, or whatever, but... in the end love _always_ wins out. You just need to trust each other. I know it's not easy for either of you, but... if anyone knows what the other is going through, it's you guys.”

“It's too late for that now,” Killian says quietly.

Henry shakes his head. “You can still fight for her!”

“That's the problem,” Killian says, “I _can't_. I already _did_ , and to do it now would be pushing when she doesn't _want_ me to.”

“I don't believe that,” Henry says, cheerfully. “And maybe I can't convince you of it right now, but one day things will work out. I'm _sure_ of it.”

Killian huffs, again, but more fondly this time. Henry's words make sense- but that's the thing with the Charmings, they can always manage to spin a situation so it sounds hopeful. And he won't do it – won't set himself  _or_ Emma up for more hurt when he is still mostly certain that it won't work out.

“You're a more optimistic man than I am, then,” he says, and Henry grins.

“Well, at least hang out with  _me_ more, then. I miss stealing other people's boats.”

“ _Borrowing_.”

.

The next time he sees her they're on opposite sides of Granny's, with their respective groups. She looks up and catches him watching her, and smiles.

If anything, it's the smile that makes his heart sink down to his toes and any hope he might have had shrivel away into bleakness, because it doesn't reach her eyes, it's a polite sort of smile to cover up the fact that everything is very much _not alright_ , and if it's the sort of smile he used to be putting on all the time, if that's what it looked like, then he sees very well exactly why she had to end things.

And then, because people are looking and _we should stay friends_ –

He smiles back.

 

**NOW**

 

Killian wants a hole to open up in the earth beneath him and swallow him whole.

He wants a freakishly strong gust of wind to suddenly bust open the cabin doors and sweep him far, far away from the woods. From Storybrooke. From the entire country, God, this is the worst possible foot in mouth incident at the worst possible time and Emma is staring and waiting and the silence is getting more and more awkward by the minute –

“I'm sorry,” he says finally. He can't look at her, keeping his gaze trained in the centre of the fire until bright spots fix themselves to his vision. “I... I didn't... I wasn't thinking, I wasn't trying to...”

He trails off, because Emma is not responding. He starts to step back, farther into the shadows, but she half-reaches out a hand towards him and he stops.

“Killian,” she says. Her voice is shaking slightly, but he can't tell what she's thinking. “I... what do you mean?”

 _I'm still in love with you_. He thinks it's pretty clear what he meant.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks, except it's not his best choice of words because her face shutters over angrily.

“How about the _truth_ for once?” she spits. “Are you... are you trying to tell me that I've been the asshole this whole time, that it wasn't actually a mutual break up-”

“What?! No, that's not it at all!” he splutters. “I just...”

“You just what?” And she's trembling now, eyes wide. “That's what you just said, isn't it? You're still in love with me? You didn't want to break up?”

“I...” and he's trapped now, trying furiously to think of what to say, unable to come up with anything. Because it's true, he would far, far rather not have, and when he looks away and doesn't reply, that's answer enough.

Emma lets out a long, slow breath.

“ _Why?_ ” she demands finally. “Why not? Things were going so _badly_ -”

“Because I thought we could have _fixed it_ ,” Killian says. He steps towards her, gesturing furiously, trying to put a month's worth of repressed feelings into words. “We could have fixed it, we could have tried-”

“That's the problem!” And she steps closer to him as well, fists clenched by her sides. Between them, the fire flickers and flares with her anger. “That's the problem, that's the problem! You kept trying to _fix things_ , Killian! Well, some things you just _can't_ fix. Some things are broken forever. Like _me_ , and, and _you_. And _us_.”

His breath catches and there is a terrible, terrible silence, like the quiet in the middle of a storm or after bombs have fallen. He can't break his eyes away from hers, can see his own desperate expression mirrored in her pupils, dilated in the darkness and shadows of the cabin.

“That's not how it was meant to be,” he says at last, softly. “We were meant to be able to fix each other.”

She draws a shuddering breath.

“Well, we fucked that up, didn't we? And how can... how can you _say_ that when you're the one who doubted me, who thought that I would think less of you because of Ariel or Blackbeard or whatever? You keep going on about how you think we could have fixed stuff but deep down you were too scared that we were too broken to be fixed, that the littlest thing would end up shattering us. And you were right.”

“I don't...” He shakes his head. “It's true, I was scared. But I wanted things to be fine because I _love you_. I was scared because I _know_ what people think of me. God, Emma, the one thing you never were was a _villain_. I was. Gods above, how fast did you all jump down my throat when you thought I was working with Zelena? You say I don't have to constantly prove myself, well I _do_ , even with you, _especially_ with you. I didn't want to mess things up because you've had enough of that in your life, I was just _trying_ -”

“ _How do you think I feel_?” she cries. “I've been so scared my _whole life_ that I'm the one who drives people away, and here I thought it would be different with you, but no! I don't know what I want anymore, I can't... I just want something that's _fine_ for once. And not your fake-smile faux-fine, something really, genuinely _alright_. I look at all the others and what we had is _not_ what they have. Rumplestiltskin is twice as bad as you and he trusts Belle, he trusts her not to hold that against him, or even if she does, to help him to overcome his past. He doesn't creep around angsting about it behind her back!”

The mention of the Crocodile strikes a nerve. He clenches his jaw, looks away, and Emma sighs again.

“That's why we broke up, okay, that's why we _had_ to break up. You're the one who didn't trust me, Killian, so don't talk to me about trying to _fix_ things.”

In the pause that follows he realises suddenly that the sound of the wind has picked up outside; it is howling loudly enough that they've been half shouting without even realising it. There is a dull thud from somewhere in the distance; perhaps a tree or a branch falling. The hair is standing up on his arms, the back of his neck, and he isn't sure if it's from the chill in the air or her harsh words.

She's still looking at him like she expects an answer, and he takes a second too long. She begins to turn away, and he reacts quickly, reaching forward to touch her arm. He pulls away when she spins back around.

“I still only ever want what makes you happiest,” he says. “Don't you _see_ , I was wrong, okay, I fucked up, but I just... I just wanted to make you happy. I never wanted this to happen. And that's why I agreed to break up. You thought it was best, and maybe it was, maybe it _is_ , but that doesn't change anything. I still care about you,” he says earnestly, “And I _still_ want to make you happy. I don't expect anything from you, I just... you need to know that. It's not that I didn't trust you. I just didn't want to disappoint you.”

She stares at him.

Her eyes are wide, her shoulders heaving, deep indents in her chapped lower lip from where she was biting it. She looks drawn and tired and _pained_ , and he hates himself – hates himself for hurting her, no matter how hard he tried not to. Hates himself for not being enough. But trapped in this frozen room, for the first time in a month able to look at her for longer than just an awkward, cursory glance –

He remembers exactly why he loves her, exactly how precious she was – _is_ – to him. Even when she's angry – even if she _hates_ him – and he always knew that he'd never stop loving her, but this, here and now, in the middle of the coldest winter – if this is the lowest they've been and he would still do anything for her –

He knows he can never let go of that, not after one month or two months or three hundred years. Any thoughts of giving up, of getting over this, flee from his mind. He has laid himself bare for her and whatever she decides now – he would rather spend a lifetime in pain, knowing he will never have her again, than try to move on without her.

Before she can say a word, though, a glimmer in the corner of his eye catches his attention. They both spin towards the door to find tendrils of ice creeping in beneath it, snaking across the floor and slowing covering the boards in a thin, glistening sheen.

They exchange glances eyes wide as they back away towards the fire.

“What,” Emma starts, but before she can say any more there is a huge crash.

An unnaturally strong burst of wind blows the door of the cabin right off its hinges, the two of them ducking as it smashes against the far wall. Outside there is nothing but a raging, whirling tempest of swirling snow and shards of ice, ripping and renting the ramshackle walls of the cabin. The snow blows into the room and suddenly everything is white.

Killian feels himself be bowled to his knees. Everything is falling apart around him, the walls, the floor, and he can't see-

“Emma!” he cries out, but his voice is quickly lost in the gale. He struggles to get to his feet but is pressed down again by the raging wind that screams into his ears, sounding almost human. He stretches out a hand but has to draw it back when tiny shards of flying ice nick at his skin.

And then, out of nowhere, a branch hurdles towards him out of the blizzard and strikes him on the head. There is a burst of pain, and then nothing.

 


	8. magic

**THEN  
** _(everything changes in time)_

  
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mary Margaret asks, three days afterwards. Emma has spent said three days going about her work in a mechanical manner, pausing to eat and sleep, trying her best to just not _think_. Thinking means wondering and wondering means unravelling and they have done enough of that already.

It's over, cut clean, just the way she wanted it.

“No,” she replies, “There's nothing to talk about it.”

Mary Margaret purses her lips together like she wants to push further. But, for once in her life, she leaves well enough alone, and Emma isn't sure if she's relieved or disappointed.

.

“I think we should talk about Killian,” David says, when they go out for drinks after work one day and the man in question spends ten minutes with them before spying Jefferson and drifting across the bar to sit with him instead.

“What's there to talk about?” Emma challenges.

David is saying words, but she doesn't take them in. Her eyes can't help but track Tinker Bell's movements as the fairy enters the pub and goes over to Killian. She watches the three of them, heads bent over their drinks. Whatever they're saying makes Killian's lips reluctantly lift into a smile. Small, but far more genuine than anything he's displayed around her the last few days.

_Good_ , she tells herself, _we should both move on, we should both move on. Look at me, I'm fine, I'm totally fine-_

“Emma?” David asks, sounding concerned, and she snaps back to attention.

“What?”

“Everything alright?"

“Everything's fine,” Emma says firmly, but her heart is suddenly beating too fast and she realises all of a sudden that it's not, it's still not, and she doesn't know how to fix it. Doesn't know what she wants.

.

“What _happened_?” Ruby cries, the first time Emma ventures back to Granny's. She knows Killian is staying here, and so she has avoided it for a little while to prevent any potentially awkward situations. It's bad enough at work already.

“I don't want to talk about it,” Emma replies, stiffly, but Ruby throws her cleaning cloth aside and leans across the counter towards her.

“Emma, I... I mean... I knew things were going rocky, but it wasn't _that_ bad, was it? I mean you two...”

“Us two what?” Emma demands. “We just _didn't_ , okay. We didn't work, we didn't fit together as wonderfully as we thought we did.”

Ruby opens her mouth, but then seems to think better of it. She presses her lips together and runs a hand through her hair before sighing.

“Okay,” she says, quietly. “Well, if you want to know. I've seen him lurking around here and... he misses you.”

“We're still friends,” Emma says, except her heart is pounding again and she quickly drops her order for hot chocolate and leaves.

.

“Alright, love?”

When she hears the accented voice behind her she nearly jumps a mile. For a brief moment it's _hope_ that flares through her, excitement, but when she spins around, nearly giving herself whiplash, it's Robin standing over her shoulder.

Her stomach sinks and she's instantly kicking herself because _stupid, stupid,_ stupid _._

“Fine,” she replies, and downs the rest of her drink in one gulp. “How are you?”

He gives a soft, sad sort of smile. It's one he's been wearing a lot recently. One thing's for sure; much as her own love life has gone completely to shit, she doesn't envy the position that he's been in for the last few months.

“Well as can be. I heard about you and Killian,” he says, brows drawing together worriedly. “If you want to talk about it, well...” he gestures a hand vaguely and Emma forces a smile.

“Nothing to talk about. But thanks.”

He nods, smiles, returns to his own table and leaves her sitting there trying to remember how many times it took her to stop feeling that little glimmer of hope whenever she thought she saw Neal in a crowd.

.

Henry is playing Xbox when she gets back home. She kicks off her shoes at the door – it seems emptier now that there aren't as many pairs there – and flops down on the beanbag beside him.

“Hey Mum,” he says, pausing the game and glancing over at her in concern. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she replies, automatically.

She doesn't miss the measuring look he gives her. He'd been concerned, pushed for answers for a while after the break up. She'd repeated the same things over and over again, the same things she'd been repeating to herself. He hadn't believed it, she knew, but she just – didn't know how to express it properly.

“Okay,” he says though, and shrugs. Turns back to his game and resumes shooting zombies.

“That's it?” Emma asks, sitting up a bit. “You don't want to ask me if I want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. I'm guessing you've said all there is to say already.”

“There wasn't _much_ to say.”

“I don't think there's more you're not telling me though. At least, not anything you still don't need to work out for yourself.” He smiles at her. “And you will. Work it out, that is.”

“Henry...” she says. She knows what he wants. She knows he thinks they can sort this through somehow, that she'll end up back together with Killian again. That's probably why he hasn't been as upset as she thought he would be; because he doesn't think this is permanent.

“I know, I know,” he says. He jabs a button and something explodes onscreen. “But I still have hope. It runs in the family.”

She half-smiles, and wonders at how her barely-adolescent son has somehow managed to be more in control of her life than she herself is.

_Permanent_. It's the first time she's really thought about it, and for some reason, picturing days and weeks and months stretching ahead, imagining herself at thirty five, forty five, without Killian – she can't quite conjure up that future, can't see herself finding someone else. The thought of it is suddenly terrifying.

It would be so easy to just call Killian, ask him to talk things over with her again, see if they could maybe, just maybe –

But no. Talking didn't work then, it might not work now, and besides – besides – she didn't think she could bear it if they tried again and it failed. There was only so much failure one could take, and she didn't want... she was...

_Scared_.

 

**NOW**

 

Emma opens her eyes slowly.

She wasn't knocked out, not quite – just dazed, and very disoriented. When the storm swept through the cabin, tearing it apart, an unnatural wind had flung her quite some distance. By the time she gets her bearings back, the screaming of the wind has died down a little, but there's still a thick white fog in the air, snow whipping about and the occasional branch or stone speeding past. She can't see more than a foot in front of her, and it's _freezing_. Her fingers and toes are already numb.

She curls into a ball, keeping low to the ground, pulling her beanie – _Killian's beanie_ – down further over her ears.

_What's going on?_

It's Elsa, it has to be – something must be happening up there, something that's causing her to be so distressed that her storm has gotten even more dangerous. Emma hopes everything is fine back in Storybrooke.

For a moment she can't move, remaining huddled on the floor, buffeted by the wind and the swirling snow, so frozen she can barely move.

Then she thinks, _Killian_.

He's out here somewhere too – without a hat. For some reason, that strange, stupid thought sticks in her head. That she has to find him and give him his hat back. She has no idea why.

She stands up and stumbles to her knees instantly. Her legs are stiff from the cold, muscles aching, and the winds are still too strong. So she begins to crawl, moving against the wind back towards where she hopes the cabin used to be.

“Killian!” she hollers. Her voice catches in the wind, small and pitiful in what suddenly seems to be a vast, empty white space.

There's no reply. The knees of her jeans begin to freeze.

“Killian!” she calls out every few minutes – with sight so limited, sound is the only hope she has of finding him. Oh, God, what if he's unconscious? She could crawl right past him and not even know.

She continues on, teeth chattering, extremities growing ever number.

“Killian!” her voice is little more than a hoarse cry at this point, mouth dry as bone.

“Emma,” she thinks she hears, but it's just a faint whisper on the wind and she isn't quite sure. She stops where she is.

“Killian?” she cries out, voice cracking mid-way.

“ _Emma_?” comes back – distantly and somewhere to her left.

“I'm coming! Stay where you are!” she shouts, scrambling frantically in that direction. Hoping desperately that she's not just hallucinating.

Moments later she spies a dark shape up ahead. Her eyes sting, dried out from the constant wind, as she crawls towards them. After a moment the shape becomes clearer – it's Killian, hunched over on the snow. As she watches he lifts his head – cheeks burning red from the cold, lips chapped to all hell – and begins making his way towards her.

They meet in a tangle of limbs, half-collapsing onto each other as though they fear that they could be swept apart again at any moment. Emma's heart is pounding, relief and adrenaline coursing through her.

“What the hell is going on? It's like a bloody cyclone.”

“It's Elsa,” she says. They're half-shouting to even hear each other over the wind. “There's nothing natural about this storm.”

“Are you okay?” he pushes her back to arms length, eyes scanning her frantically. “The cabin, it just... it was completely destroyed.”

“I'm fine, what happened to your head?” Her hands move up to his brow where there's a bruise forming, the skin broken slightly but, it seems, having stopped bleeding.

“Got knocked flat by a branch. Dazed me for a few minutes, but I'm alright.”

“Here's your hat back,” she says then, jamming it onto his head. He doesn't pull back at her touch this time. She puts her own beanie back on, but it does very little when she can already feel less than half of her body parts. Killian seems to come to the same conclusion.

“We're half frozen to death already, love,” he says, and promptly puts an arm around her, pulling her in closer to his side. She's too glad of the slight, slight warmth even that contact provides to feel at all awkward or embarrassed at the close physical contact – but when it comes down to it, neither of them have nearly enough body heat left to even begin warming the other up.

“I know,” she replies. “I need... I need to use magic to protect us.”

He pauses. And she realises he still doesn't know, doesn't understand exactly why her magic wasn't working earlier in the cabin. The only way she could kickstart it was to get angry.

But now – now their lives literally depend on it working. No pressure there, then.

She tries to use that panic to fuel it, reaching out frantically, hoping that it's back within her grasp, but still nothing. She could cry with frustration.

“Emma, don't get angry,” Killian says. His arm pulls tighter around her, drawing her close to his side. She's exhausted, so exhausted – and she lets herself relax, lets her head slump against his shoulder and her arms wrap loosely around his waist, embracing the way they always used to. Her face is pressed to his chest, against his undershirt rather than the thick material of his winter coat, and she can feel his heart beating, faster than it probably ought to be.

“Don't get angry,” he repeats, the words thrumming through his chest against her cheek. “It worked last time, but that's not what your magic is. Love and hope, remember? Think of Henry, think of Neal. Think of getting back to them.”

She closes her eyes and takes a long, deep breath.

He always knows the perfect things to say to her. She sees this now – and in the fondness and closeness of his arms, she can't help thinking back to how comfortable and easy this is, how this is _them_. Not that horrible angry tension back in the cabin when both their fists were clenched and they were getting aggressively up in each other's space.

His words come back to her. _I still love you_ and _I still only want to make you happy_ and, most telling of all – _it's not that I didn't trust you. I just didn't want to disappoint you_.

It's funny how two short sentences could so dramatically clear her vision; like she'd been looking through fogged over glass and suddenly something came along and wiped it clean.

Because she _sees_ now – and it should have been obvious, obvious, _obvious_ , because laid out clear like that it just makes so much sense –

This whole time her self doubt has been holding her back. It had to be that he didn't trust _her_ , that he thought she would judge him, that _she_ was the problem here, the factor that stopped him from telling her the truth –

But there it was – _I didn't want to disappoint you_ – all along they've mirrored each other, right down to their deep seated self worth issues. It was _himself_ he didn't trust. His own self doubt, self hatred – all the things they'd been working to get rid of in _both_ of them, rising back up. And instead of helping each other as they always had, they both blamed themselves – as they always did – backed off from each other under the misguided notion that that was the best thing to do.

She feels so _stupid_ now. Because yes, they've both been broken, and that's not going to go away – but the fact that when he first said it, when _I love you_ dropped from his lips back in the cabin – the first thing she'd felt, the first instinctive emotion that coursed through her –

_Hope_.

And drawing on that feeling now, tightening her arms around him, Emma feels the first flickering of her magic. Not burning hot and uncomfortable but warm, and pleasant, sending much-needed heat flooding through her body.

A shimmering bubble expands around them; a shield that the snow and the wind can't penetrate. When she opens her eyes it's to the odd sight of flecks of snow and ice rebounding off a strange, glimmering wall. It's suddenly very quiet, the noise of the wind gone in here as well.

She pulls back from Killian. He's smiling.

“Told you you could do it,” he says with a grin. “You just need to think about the right things.”

“I thought about you.”

It bursts out of Emma before she can stop it, and his smile falters on his face before he bites his lip and looks away. She can tell what he's thinking – that he's trying not to take it as an invitation, that he's furiously doubting it can mean what he hopes it means.

_He's been doing that for a month now_ , she realises.

She gets to her feet and holds a hand out to him, pulling him up.

“Come on,” she says, “Let's try to get to the road. Maybe the storm's not as bad farther away from Elsa.”

He starts to pull his hand away as they begin walking, but she holds on tighter. He glances down at her with something akin to confusion. She just smiles, briefly, before beginning walking.

Her magical shield floats along with them as they move. The frigidness of outside is gone, but there's still a brisk chill in the air. Their hands feel cold even through the material of their gloves.

“Emma,” Killian says, after a few minutes. He sounds pained.

“Shhh,” she replies. “We'll talk later, okay?”

He stops walking and she's pulled up short by their linked hands. She turns to face him and sees the torn expression on his face – not wanting to keep going when he doesn't know where they stand, when he isn't sure if he should be giving himself hope or not, if he's just setting himself up for more pain.

“I mean it,” she says. “We'll talk. Properly. Let's just get to the road first, alright?”

After a moment he nods, and they continue on.

Their vision is still limited, but somehow she knows which direction they should be going in, like her magic has expanded beyond the bubble, the scope and layout of the land around her resting in the back of her mind like something she memorised a long time ago and still vaguely knows. They make good speed with her shield protecting them, and it isn't long before the main road leading back into town comes into view.

It's still slick with ice and snow, but somewhat calmer than it is deeper into the woods, closer to Elsa. Her bug isn't here, though, parked farther along the trail, but she can already see a buildup of snow, ice and fallen trees blocking the way to it.

“Still no reception?” Killian asks.

She checks her phone and shakes her head. “No, but if I know David he'll be out looking for us. Best to wait here until he comes along.”

He nods. They could always walk back into town, but they're both exhausted and it's quite a long hike. She's also not sure how long her magic will hold up for; she hasn't used it for an extended period before. Best not to put it under stress.

She sits down against the trunk of a tree by the side of the road, and after a moment Killian settles next to her.

“So,” she says.

“So,” he replies.

There's a moment of silence.

“I'm sorry,” Emma says finally.

He opens his mouth, probably to say she has nothing to apologise for, but she reaches out and presses a finger to his lips.

“I mean it. I... I _was_ giving you mixed signals back there, you're right. I just... I wasn't sure, myself, how I... how I felt.” She scoffs out a laugh. “And I know I was blaming you for all this, for not telling me the truth, but the thing is... I was scared. Scared that _I_ was the problem, the way I always am. That's why I was upset when you didn't feel you could tell me about Ariel.”

“That's not it,” he says quietly. “I was just... used to people seeing me as a villain.”

“I know. I reacted too quickly. If I'd stopped and thought about it... but I didn't want to start dissecting things. It took me long enough to even accept that my relationship with my _family_ wasn't all just going to be ripped away from me. The things about happy endings is that to me they always seem too good to be true. Product of not getting many, I suppose. So the moment a problem came up I just... panicked, I guess. Wanted to end it before it could get even messier.”

“I understand,” he says softly, and the thing is, she knows he does. That he's probably the only person who possibly _could_.

“So. I'm sorry. This wasn't all on you. It was my choice to break up.” _And it was the wrong choice,_ but she leaves that unsaid. He knows that she knows it.

“And it wasn't all on _you_ , Emma,” he replies. “I'm sorry – and I mean it properly this time. I said it before but I didn't... didn't fully understand why you were so upset. It was my fault too. No matter what you think, or how scared I was, I should have trusted you. I mean, it was a privilege that you ever let me in in the first place – I know how hard that is for you – and my cowardice... it was a betrayal of that trust.”

“Killian..."

“I mean it. And I shouldn't have sat on it for a month, either. No more secrets,” he says earnestly, and she can't help but smile.

“No more secrets.”

“In that case, I should say, Emma Swan... I love you, and I won't ever stop loving you. And if you won't have me, I won't pursue you, but... I won't move on, either. I can't move on.”

“That's good,” she says, “Because I don't want you to, and I don't think I can either. I love you as well.”

The smile that breaks out on his face is the happiest she's seen him in months, and she can't help but smile as well – wide and unabashedly joyful. And it's funny how after a month and a half of horrible tension and awkward silences and fighting and ignoring each other, they can just fall back together so quickly – but that's it, she realises suddenly, that's True Love – not a smooth road with no potholes, well it might be for some people – but, as Snow and Charming say, always finding each other. Being there when it matters most.

And besides, they're _not_ Snow and Charming – or Belle and Rumple – she's always been one to forge her own path. Her happily ever after doesn't necessarily have to come from a story book.

She wants to kiss him, but then pauses – needs him to be the one to do it, the one to trust that yes, this is real, they're back together, they're going to work out this time – and after a moment he leans forward, gently cradles the back of her head with his good hand and kisses her.

Any stray doubts she might have had about fixing this vanish completely, because it's been too long, too long, too long – as soon as their lips touch the realisation of how much she's missed this, missed _him_ , slams back into her – she remembers every other kiss, the first one in Neverland, intense and passionate and only just realising how much he would do for her –

The second after they got back from the Enchanted Forest, the time she realised just how _comfortable_ things felt with him, like every missing piece just fell into place and she was _home_ –

And every single one after that, when they were together and she was happier than she'd ever been in her life.

When they break apart, foreheads resting against each other, she reaches up and cups his face, thumb running across his cheek.

“It's all going to be okay,” she says. He huffs up a laugh that's almost hysterical, and she brings her other hand up, angling his head down to meet her eyes.

“I mean it. And I want you to say it and mean it this time.”

“It's all going to be okay,” he whispers.

“Good. It's true,” she says, and smiles, and kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for being so lovely throughout this story! One more chapter to go :)


	9. together

**NOW  
** _(i don't believe that we can fail this time)_

Even by the time they're back up in the loft, Killian still can't quite believe that the last few hours have been real. Every now and then he'll think he's drifting off into a memory or daydream and start to kick himself, tell himself _don't even think about it_ and _kidding yourself will just make it hurt more_ only to realise that wait – Emma Swan did indeed just kiss him – and they really are back together after all.

David found them like that; huddled by the side of the road in each other's arms. He barely restrained from commenting then and he is struggling just as much now, as he moves up to where Killian is sitting in front of the heater in their apartment, and passes him a cup of steaming hot tea.

“There you go,” he says, taking a seat opposite.

Killian nods his thanks, wrapping his fingers around the mug and just holding it, letting the warmth seep back into his fingertips. After so long out in the cold it is taking a while to thaw.

David is staring at him, and after a few minutes Killian raises an eyebrow.

“Something you want to say, mate?”

David's eyes flicker to Emma. She's huddled on the couch, phone in hands, texting Henry where he's back at Granny's. The storm is still raging outside – though less intensely than it was in the forest – and they can't bring him over to the loft just yet. Mary Margaret is raining down on her daughter with blankets and cushions until she's now practically buried under a mountain of pillows.

David opens his mouth, then hesitates. Killian catches on quickly; he wants to ask why they were holding hands when he found them, and kept holding hands during the car ride there, and have been acting more comfortably around each other than they have been in weeks – but at the same time he doesn't want to assume, to hurt Killian with possibilities if it turns out he's mistaken after all.

Killian smiles, half-amused and half kind of touched. “It's fine, mate, you can ask.”

“You guys... fixed things?” David asks, and Killian nods. David's face brightens. “All the way? I mean, are you back together again?”

“I... think so?” He realises suddenly that they never said it out loud, never made it official – then realises just as quickly that they don't need to. They both know. “Yes,” he says, more confidently. “We are.”

David's grin is so wide it nearly splits his face in half. He claps Killian on the shoulder hard enough to almost make him spill his tea.

“That's great! It was only a matter of time, really.” At Killian's unimpressed look, he laughs. “I'm serious. You were both miserable. Everyone could see that you wanted to get back together. Except you two.”

That's not entirely true; he always wanted to fix things – just didn't know how to, was too wary about what Emma might want – or not want – to dare try for fear of making things worse.

He smiles, though. “Well, it worked out in the end.”

“Killian, David!” Emma calls from the couch. “Get over here, will you? I want to know what happened with Regina.”

They rise and walk over. Killian hovers by the couch for a minute before Emma grabs his arm and pulls him to sit down next to her, throwing half of her blanket over him. He sees Mary Margaret raise her eyebrows, then give a small smile before turning away to go and check on Neal.

“So what happened?” Emma asks, looking up at David.

“When none of us found Elsa we all met back up at the road – except you guys. We figured you must have found her, so Regina set off in the direction you'd taken and the rest of us headed back to town to help out. I guess Regina must have confronted her and upset her, and that's what made the storm so much worse,” David explains.

It certainly fit the time frame when the winds had suddenly gotten supernaturally strong; strong enough to blow apart the entire cabin. Killian shivers at the thought of the magical confrontation going down in that terrible ice prison. Elsa's edifice reminds him of himself; a physical manifestation of the way he pulled away after Liam's death and even more after Milah's, all jagged edges and coldness, hardness, relentlessly putting up walls and spikes to avoid letting any more pain in.

“And she hasn't come back yet?” Emma asks.

“No,” David replies, worry tinging his tone. “But since that initial first time the storm hasn't gotten worse. She told me not to follow her.”

“Hmm.” Emma looks down, biting her lip, and Killian reaches across to squeeze her hand.

“I'm sure she'll be fine, love,” he says softly. “Like you said before. If anyone can talk Elsa down, it's Regina.”

She gives a reluctant nod.

“Well then,” David says. He rises and heads off to join Mary Margaret, leaving the two of them sitting alone.

“So,” Emma says.

“So,” Killian replies, with a half-smile.

At that moment Emma's phone buzzes. She glances down to check it with a smile.

“It's Henry,” she says. “He's going stir-crazy over in Granny's. We probably should have stopped off to pick him up on the way here.”

“Have you told him yet?” Killian asks, a little hesitantly.

Emma pauses. “Told him what?” she asks, and Killian freezes.

Suddenly those old insecurities rise back up again - _you misread everything_ and _she was just being kind before, resolving things, you're not actually back together_ – but a second later the confusion in Emma's eyes clears and she laughs.

“Oh, right, about us. I haven't told him yet. I thought it might be better to do it in person.”

Killian nods, slumping back in relief, and Emma notices because she leans in against his shoulder, arm moving to wrap around him.

“You're fine with that, right?” she asks. “I mean... it sounds cliché but maybe we could just pick up where we left off.”

“We didn't leave off in a very good place,” he points out, and she snorts.

“I mean – before. Before all of that. Just try again and try harder this time. You could move back in tonight.”

“Is that... are you okay with that?” It all seems very fast to him, but Emma is nodding now.

“I am if you are,” she replies, with a small smile – and he smiles back, leaning in to press a kiss to the top of her head.

“I am too,” he says – and sees it now; they fell apart but they're falling back together again just as easily. Fast it may be, but they've both spent a lifetime taking things slowly and it's time to change that. Change that now that they've both found someone they can trust.

“Good,” Emma says, and laces her fingers in his, head coming down to rest against his chest.

They're finally safe – finally home – finally _together_ , no more secrets, no more walls – and for the first time in a long time he's truly, properly happy.

.

Killian encounters Snow in the kitchen when he goes to boil more water for tea. The wind is howling, racketing against the window frames, the bare branches of the trees outside whipping and lashing against the glass panes. But inside the house it is cosy and warm, and the storm cannot get to them here.

They make slightly awkward eye contact as she moves past him to get to the sink, and he gives a small smile. She smiles back, then catches his arm as he starts to turn away.

“Killian.”

“Yes?” He turns to her, suddenly a little nervous – not having spent any length of time around her alone.

She smiles, though. “David told me you two fixed things. I'm glad.”

“Oh? I wasn't sure you approved, even the first time.” The cockiness rises up almost outside of his control, a defence mechanism more than anything else, and he kicks himself instantly. Snow just smiles, however, leaning back against the bench, her arms rising to fold across her chest.

“You're right, I didn't, not at first, but... after seeing what happened between you two... it's pretty obvious that you're good for her.” She must see how taken aback he is by her words, and laughs. “And she's good for you,” she continues.

“I... appreciate your blessing,” he finally manages, and her lips twist into another smile.

“Emma is... difficult,” she says slowly. “I know you know this already, but she doesn't trust easily. Even me... sometimes... I mean, we were friends before the curse broke. And it's hard, balancing that against being her mother, after being absent for almost three decades. It's too easy to let her pull away sometimes. But love isn't meant to be easy.”

He nods, her gaze still holding his intently.

“I know it might seem strange for me to say that,” she adds. “Considering all the times Charming and I lost each other it was due to, well, other people. But you and Emma... I don't know. It's True Love, I can see that, and it means you'll always find each other. Just like David and I do. You just have to trust in that.”

“I do,” he says softly, and her smile widens.

“Good,” she says firmly. “And you know, it's better you got all this out of the way early. Better now than in three years time. If you think about it... two months isn't all that long. Think of it as working out the kinks.”

“There are a lot of kinks,” he admits. “Some likely still to come.”

“Like I said,” she says, “You'll always find each other.”

The kettle whistles loudly as it finishes boiling, and she reaches past him to the cupboard to help fetch some mugs.

“We should talk further some time,” she says, as she places them on the counter next to him and starts for the main room. “And not just about Emma.”

“That would be good,” he replies, and feels an odd sort of relief, like the final piece in a puzzle has fallen into place and it still almost feels like a dream, but _this is it, he really has found a family after all._

.

The storm ends about an hour later.

The snow stops first, replaced by a gentle drizzle of rain that ceases soon afterwards. The winds die down into more of a gentle breeze and while it's still cold when they cautiously venture outside, it's more the brisk chill of a normal winter, that unnatural frigidness to the air gone.

David calls Regina, but she doesn't pick up.

“Should we go out and look for her?” he asks, and Emma shakes her head.

“No. Whatever happened, Elsa must have calmed down or everything would still be frozen. They probably need space now, not the whole bunch of us traipsing through the forest interfering with them.”

Killian nods. “I agree.”

“In that case,” David says, “You should go pick up Henry.”

It's not just Emma he's addressing, it's both of them, and the unspoken _you need to talk to him_ is clear.

They head off quickly, taking David's truck. It's not a long drive, and Henry – forewarned by text – is already waiting out the front of the diner. He runs up when he sees them pull over, and Emma is barely out of the truck before he's pulling her into a hug. The lad's getting taller; she barely needs to bend over now as she pulls him closer, arms winding around her tightly. Henry can't help but smile.

“I was really worried,” Henry says. He'd been trying to text Emma earlier on, when they were caught out in the storm.

“I know, kiddo. But we're fine,” Emma says. They pull apart a little and Henry glances at Killian, who nods.

“We're tough as nails, lad. A little inclement weather isn't nearly enough to take down your mother and I.”

Henry smiles a bit, but he's glancing between the two of them now. He's nothing if not perceptive, and he very quickly notes that the lingering awkwardness that's pervaded the last few months is conspicuously absent.

“Something's different,” he announces. “You made up, didn't you?”

They glance at each other, then Emma nods.

“Yeah, we did,” she says. “We uh... had the chance to talk a few things out. Get some things straight. And clear up a few misunderstandings.”

The grin that spreads across Henry's face rivals that of the Cheshire Cat.

“So you're back together?” he cries excitedly, and Killian's barely nodded before the boy is flying into his arms, nearly knocking him back a pace.

“Whoah! Careful, lad,” he laughs, though he's glad to hug him back.

“I knew it!” Henry exclaims. “Didn't I tell you both it'd all work out? Didn't I tell you?”

“I guess you did,” Emma says, reaching over to ruffle his hair.

“You see?” he adds, and reaches out to pull Emma into the hug with them. “Everything works out in the end. You just need to keep hoping.”

For all that he's growing up so fast, it's still such a naïve way to view relationships. The cynical part of Killian rebels against the idea, and he can tell that Emma feels the same way, but for now – for now, with his arms around the two people he loves most in the world, with everything fine for once – it's nice to just believe.

.

Regina and Elsa return to the town a few hours later, quietly, under cover of darkness. Killian does not see them; they go straight to the mansion, but Regina calls them to let them know that they're back, and they're safe, and Elsa is under control, and not to bother them for now.

That night is a good night. He fetches some of his things from Granny's and moves back into Emma's apartment. It's startling how easily they fall back into old habits, old routines. They have a very late supper, biscuits and cocoa – a staple for the Swan family, it seems – and stay up even later with Henry. The boy seems to be revelling in having Killian back around them. It's touching, to say the least, exactly how much his absence seemed to have affect the lad. He hadn't realised – Henry can be as good as his mother at hiding things, when the mood strikes him – but if anything it only reassures him that this is fine, he has a place here, everything fits.

That night they're too exhausted to do much but fall asleep as soon as they get into bed. But when he wakes up, almost embarrassingly late the next morning, it's to weak winter sunlight streaming in through the window, and Emma Swan in his arms, her golden hair fanning out across his chest, face relaxed in sleep – more peaceful than he's ever seen her – and as he runs his fingers softly through her hair that's when he finally believes that this isn't a dream, and they really are okay again.

.

Tinker Bell literally _squeals_ when she runs into him leaving the sheriff station. She's been busy with fairy-related things, hasn't had time to catch up with him, but would have had to be blind to miss the fact that he'd moved out of Granny's.

“You made up! I told you!”

If ' _You're true love_ ' was being thrown around a lot before, ' _I told you_ ', is being tossed around a hell of a lot now. Part of him is annoyed at how public his private life suddenly is, but the boisterous optimism of most of Storybrooke regarding his relationship is also reassuring, in a way.

“Yes, yes,” he says, rolling his eyes, but he smiles when she hugs him.

Jefferson was hanging around nearby too, and he approaches with caution, stepping back a bit when Tink springs away from Killian and nearly smacks into him. He looks at Killian and gives him a half-grin.

“You look a lot better,” he informs him. “She's good for you.”

“Are you gonna tell me we're doomed to fail a second time?” Killian can't help ribbing him, and Jefferson pulls a face.

“No,” he replies. “Jesus, man, you really take stuff to heart. Fine. _Cracks are like scars, they don't go away but they do end up healing_ ,” he intones in a spooky voice. “There, is that better now? Has the Mad Hatter now blessed your relationship instead of cursing it?”

Killian snorts, but can't help his huff of amusement, and Jefferson breaks into a small smile too.

“Seriously, though, I'm happy for you,” Jefferson says, reaching out to jostle his shoulder. “I mean. I know everyone in this town goes on about it, but. Keep having hope or whatever.” He speaks the last few words quickly, almost embarrassed. Killian understands how he feels – centuries of cynicism and disillusionment bearing down on him until it feels just plain awkward to do a heel-face-turn towards believing that everything will turn out okay.

And it won't, not always. He knows that – Jefferson does too, intimately and with the scars to prove it – but when it comes to relationships, when it comes to Emma or Grace – those are things you can fix, if you are brave, if you can learn to trust.

And he trusts Emma.

.

Elsa is fine.

They don't see her for a couple of weeks – Regina tells them that she's still recovering, and then, later on, that she's embarrassed – but the town knows enough about what happened for there to be no hard feelings.

When she finally emerges, pale and thin, fingers twisting nervously in the sleeves of her jumper, Regina hovers protectively over her shoulder as they go to sit in Granny's. But there are nothing but smiles from the townsfolk, and soft questions as to whether she's alright now.

Emma and Killian wait until she's settled into her booth before going over. When Elsa looks up and sees them she smiles nervously.

“Hey,” Emma says softly, exchanging a glance with Regina. “ How are you doing?”

“Better now,” Elsa replies. Killian doesn't know how Regina talked her down, he's just glad she did. “I, um... sorry for attacking you guys. I didn't-”

“It's fine,” Emma cuts in. “Seriously, don't worry about it. It wasn't your fault. I just wanted to let you know that Belle's been looking into Arendelle, trying to find out what happened there since you were imprisoned. We'll let you know as soon as we find anything.”

“Thank you,” Elsa replies, with the first hints of a genuine smile.

Emma smiles back, and makes to leave, but Killian pauses. He feels like he should say something about Anna – some words of reassurance, even sympathy – but they don't come fast enough, and Regina gives him an odd look, and he just nods, with a slightly awkward smile.

Emma picks up on it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks that night, carefully – it's only been a few weeks after all.

He hesitates. His immediate instinct is to say “No,” to let them stay in this little bubble of bliss a while longer – but that's what got them into trouble in the first place.

“Okay,” he says instead, and Emma curls up next to him, tugging the couch throw up over them.

He takes a deep breath, the bitter scent of brine strong on his nostrils, and tells her about Liam.

Not just his death – he was more than that, so much more than just the catalyst that pushed Killian into a life of vengeance and passion and that downward spiral of bad decisions. He tells her about before, all the sibling moments – when they were growing up, their years in the academy, the shaping of his values and all his sense of honour.

He's not looking for pity, but he sees her features soften with it anyway.

“Elsa's different,” he says finally. It's late into the night by now, the air chill around them but her arm warm against his under the blanket. “She was the older sister. Sometimes I wonder what Liam would have done, if it was me who'd died instead. If he'd have taken the same path.”

“I don't think he'd be ashamed of you,” Emma replies. “Not of where you've ended up. And you've always had honour, even...”

_Even in your darkest moments._ He sighs a bit, and she reaches over, looping her arms around his neck, pulling him in to kiss him gently.

“I'm glad you told me,” she says softly.

“Me too,” he replies. It's a weight off his chest – and this wasn't even a bad secret, except for the bitter sort of disappointment he sometimes feels at his quick turnabout from officer to pirate, and even that never lasts long. He can justify a lot of things to himself, but spending so much time around the Charmings always raises unwanted questions in the back of his mind.

Emma is watching him speculatively, and after a moment she says, “You should tell David all that.”

“What?” he straightens up a bit.

She's nodding now. “I really think you should.”

“I... don't know about that, love.”

“Well, just think about it. Not right away. We have time.” And her head nestles against his chest again. “We have time for a lot of things.”

Killian doesn't think of the future much, but when he does now it is consumed with her. He realises suddenly that if they mean this to work – and they do – there are years ahead with her. Decades, even. They don't need to rush anything. It doesn't have to be perfect right away – or at all.

And Neverland has skewed his sense of time to all hell, but suddenly he's looking forward to it, to taking it slowly, to the journey. They'll get there.

.

Life goes on.

No new super threats pop up, nothing that threatens everybody. Anything smaller they can deal with, he and Emma and David. They have time to just be a family, to settle into a second honeymoon phase. One that, this time, they are determined to make last.

Days blur into weeks. Things are going smoothly, smoothly, but –

But he has Days, sometimes, Emma does too, when things rise up and start to overwhelm them, whether it be their pasts, or people or incidents in the town, or just the general fears that come with a lifetime of having the things you love ripped away from you.

He has a Day, when he loses his hook – just _loses_ it, doesn't even know how, doesn't realise that he's been wearing the fake hand more and more until one day he needs it for something (there's only so much you can do with stiff, unmovable fingers that can't latch onto things or do much else than slap against things bluntly) and finds that it isn't where he usually keeps it.

He doesn't freak out, he searches calmly and methodically and he's a neat enough person both at home and at the sheriff's station that he finds it eventually (in a drawer, just not the one where he normally keeps it) – but he's at such a loss as to how it could have _happened –_ how something that's so important to him could just be forgotten like that.

He's Killian Jones now, but he was Hook for hundreds of years, and that's not something you erase – that's not something he _wants_ to erase. It was formative, perhaps not in a good way, but it's still something that he isn't ready to let go of.

He goes down to the docks, as usual. And it hits him there, that it's not just the hook, it's the Jolly Roger, things he thought he'd gotten over in finding a new home here, in Storybrooke, but nostalgia can hit at the strangest of times and with force.

Emma finds him there, as she always does. It's a position they've been in hundreds of times before, looking out at the water, hand in hand. This was where she first told him she loved him; this was where he first gave himself up to her, agreed to take her back to Neverland and everything he never wanted to face again –

and this is where they stand now as she squeezes his hand and looks up at him and says, quietly:

“It's okay to miss it. The past is the past but it's still a part of _us_. I don't just love Killian Jones because he gave up being a pirate. I would love you if you still were a pirate. I was a thief too, you know.”

It's like every residual weight has dropped off his shoulders. He doesn't look at her, doesn't need to – her hand in his is enough. And as they gaze out across the water, knowing that _here_ is where they belong, he notices that the snow along the docks is beginning to thaw, that the chill in the air is not quite so brisk and, as they turn to walk back into town, that green is sprouting between the edges and cracks of the footpath. Winter is over and spring is coming in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so so much to everyone who's read, commented or left kudos! I have been blown away by everyone's kindness and support while writing this, and I really hope you enjoyed this final chapter as much as I enjoyed writing the story~ <3 :)
> 
> If anyone is interested, a mix of the songs used at the start of each chapter and that I listened to while writing this that helped shape the mood of the fic is up on my tumblr (eight-0f-hearts).
> 
> Thanks again and I hope you all liked it! :)


End file.
